lit llliteiiiiiliiiiiiliilii 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

Chap. Copyright No, 

Shelf...A.5.S ? 1- 
4S<}J 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 



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TWO cwr<^ ^nmviiy 



RIFTS IN THE CLOUDS 



POEMS 



WALTER M. HAZELTINE 



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CAMBRIDGE 

iPrinteU at X\z EiDerfiitrc l^xtm 

1897 



1 




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TWO CrtP'iPS t^fWKIVEO 



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Ts 3^1 r 



COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY C. HAZELTINE 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



n6 



TO 

MY DEARLY BELOVED SISTER 

THESE SONGS 

STRAY THOUGHTS, CREATIONS OF IDLE MOMENTS 

ARE LOVINGLY INSCRIBED 



Had the author lived the foregoing dedication would 
have been used in a volume he was preparing for 
publication. It was his wish, should he not live, 
that the same dedication be used in any volume 
published by his friends. 



THE GOAL 

Sweet the songs of the reaper^ 

When the harvest is gathered in ; 
Sweet the sound of rejoicing 

When the victory we win ; 
Sweet the dreams of the sleeper, 

Sweet the faith of the soul 
When it nears the brimming river, 

God, and its infinite goal. 



In weaving his thoughts into song, 
the author snatched many a happy hour 
from five years of enforced idleness and 
suffering. 

The selections which appear in this 
volume, taken from many others, may 
not be in all cases such as he would 
have chosen, and many have been omit- 
ted which possibly the author would 
have considered his best. 



CONTENTS 



PAGB 



THE MASTER I 

THE BESTEST FOURTH 3 

JES' BEFORE CHRISTMAS 6 

SQUIRE STEBBINS'S REMARKS 9 

THE tramp's soliloquy I3 

sleepin' in the attic 16 

A tramp's song 19 

THE IMP-HAUNTED POOL 22 

WHEN THE BOOGIE-MEN CAME ROUND .... 25 

WHEN THE COWSLIPS START TO GROW .... 28 

THANK-TIME AN' LOAFIN'-TIME 30 

BIRD-SONGS AND RIVER-SONGS ^^ 

UP an' down THE RIVER 36 

THE END OF THE ROAD 39 

MY DEAR OLD ATTIC ROOM 42 

HOW-DE-DO 45 

eifty odd winters and more 47 

ho! bonny boy! 51 

whereaway 53 

vacation 55 

the little red schoolhouse 57 

sing a song of happy 59 

just to be a boy 61 

if you will 63 

GOLLY, don't you CARE 65 

SUCCESS 67 

WHEN I WAS A BOY 69 



X CONTENTS 

SING, HO y^ 

SING A SONG OF DON'T VOU CARK 75 

AIRSHIPS -jy 

SING, HO ! MY FRECKLED ROVER 79 

THE HUNTER DISMAYED 81 

COME UP FROM THE SWEET BEGUILING .... ^^^ 

VACATION IS OVER 85 

the country stage 87 

Cupid's miss 89 

TROUBLE 91 

fun here in new england 93 

"handle with care, else the stitches will 

fall" 95 

let them pass 98 

breaking out the road 100 

spring, gentle spring i02 

in the scenery of dreams i04 

when the race is through i05 

love's EYES 106 

THE USES OF ADVERSITY I07 

EARTH MUSIC I08 

A NAME 109 

IN AUTUMN TIME HO 

CONSCIENCE Ill 

MEMORIES 112 

THE MOUNTAIN SPRING IIJ 

THE WINTER ROAD II4 

IN THE YOUNG WINTER II5 

EXPECTATION II6 

youth's HOLIDAY II7 

AN APRIL DAY I18 

BUT A PART 119 

ALL IS GOOD 120 

A WINTER TWILIGHT 121 

THE CHIDE 122 



LINES 



CONTENTS xi 



'■n 



OH, THE OBSCURITY I24 

A WISH „ 125 

THE NATURE — CHANGE I26 

IT IS BETTER I28 

THE GOAL 129 

MOONLIGHT I^O 

131 



THE HEART . . 
A GAME BOARD 



132 

HEART MUSIC I^^ 

MY PRAYER 134 

DO AS Y'OU MUST 1^5 

ASPIRATIONS 1^7 

don't WORRY 1^8 

DREAMING I-^n 

FALLING SNOW 1^0 

MORNING 141 

TO-MORROW 142 

OF THE FUTURE I^-j 

WHEN FOR ME I44 

IN AN OLD BARN I^e 

THE SONG 146 

god's GRACE T47 

WORDS THAT LIVE I48 



WHO? . . . 
BY THE LAKE 



149 
150 



TO HER BEAUTIFUL DEAD 
HE IS DEAD 



151 

152 

A DAY ir, 

TRUTH 1^5 

SUNSET 156 



THE DAY .... 
THE DUTY OF DAYS 



157 

159 

A VISION OF HOPE 161 

THE NEW YEAR IN 165 



xii CONTENTS 

AN AUTUMN SONG 167 

IN SEPTEMBER 169 

DECEMBER 171 

THE GRAY GULL l^2 

A DAY — ARIZONIAN 1 74 

A MORNING-RISE 175 

IN THE TIME OF WANING AUTUMN 177 

NOR YET FORGOT 179 

THE MOWERS 182 

THE WOODSMEN 183 

THE PASSING OF THE YEAR 186 

SITTING ALONE IN THE TWILIGHT 188 

THE BEST OF ALL THE DEAR OLD SONGS . . . I9I 

WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS 194 

OVER THE BROW OF THE HILL 196 

THE FIRST THANKSGIVING I99 

THE LAST THANKSGIVING 202 

A MOOD 204 

OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST 2o6 

THE SONG 208 

THE OLD HOME 209 

THE CRICKET IN THE WALL 211 

TWILIGHT ON A MOUNTAIN LAKE 213 

AS OUR FATHERS DID OF YORE 215 

THE poet's birth 217 

AN EVENING WALK 219 

OLD SONGS AND YEARS 222 

THE SONG OF THE STORM 226 

SONG 228 

TWO SONGS 230 

the answer of the rose 232 

"chatter, chatter, it's no matter" . . . 236 

pithy sayings 239 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



PORTRAIT Frojitispiece ^"^""^ ^ 

THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY .... Facing ^age 14 . 
WHEN THE BOOGIE-MEN CAME ROUND .... 26 «• 
AT THE END OF THE ROAD , . -„ 

FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE. (Youth) ... 48 
FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE. (Age) .... 50 . 

WHEN I WAS A BOY »q ' 

THE FIRST THANKSGIVING 200 ' 

TWILIGHT ON A MOUNTAIN LAKE 214 



POEMS 



THE MASTER 

Ah, ancient is my harp ; for many a 
day 
It hath lain idle, and its strings have 
grown 
Rusty with little use, mayhap the way 
The mind grows rusty when it dwells 
alone. 

Unpracticed are my hands, ay, e'en un- 
taught. 
And little do I know the wondrous 
strings ; 
Yet how my heart doth beat with glad- 
ness fraught, 
When I can listen while the master 
sings. 



2 THEMASTEK 

I brought it forth, attuned it to my heart, 
And idly o'er its strings my fingers 
strayed ; 
From high to low, yet trembling in each 
part, 
They stumbled, stopped, and seemed 
to be afraid. 

The master touched a chord, — anon 
there grew 
A wealth of harmony without and in, 
Like wine drunk sparkling of an olden 
brew ; 
Time was and was not, yet had heaven 
been. 



THE BESTEST FOURTH 



THE BESTEST FOURTH 

On th' morning of hurrah day, when th' 

toot-horns blow, 
I went down to Jimmie Nolan's, where 

they had a show. 
An' raggy men an' women, an' a peddler 

with a pack, 
An' a band an' a procession, with faces 

painted black, 
An' Injunses an* gypsies, an' a wagon 

full o' girls 
With flowers an' white dresses an' little 

things an' curls. 
An' men 'at chased a greased pig an' 

tried to climb a pole. 
An' tried to race in washin' tubs on 

Jimmie' s swimmin' hole ; 
An' there was flags a-flyin' an' toot-horns 

goin' toot, 
An' snap crackers bangin' off, an' pistol 

guns to shoot, 



4 THE BESTEST FOURTH 

An' popcorn an' peanuts an' molasses 

candy, too, 
An' more 'n a million people, an' hardly 

one I knew ; 
An' a man 'at played a organ jes' as sweet 

as you can think. 
An' a monkey 'at would bob an' bow an' 

scratch his head an' blink ; 
An' when the dark came, fireworks an* 

rockets 'at went whiz, 
An' red fire an' yellow fire an' whirligigs 

'at fiz. 
An' then a cannon went off bang ! An' 

all th' people round 
Cheered an' throwed their hats up, an' 

th' boys rolled on th' ground ; 
Then th' rain began to patter an' th' 

folks began to run, 
An' ma, she said, " There 's always some- 
thing comes to spoil the fun ! " 
An' then she put her bonnet underneath 

the wagon seat ; 
An' pa, he said, he thought this Fourth 

o' July beat 
Any Fourth he ever see, an' I said I 

thought so too ; 



THE BESTEST FOURTH 5 

Er a barrel full o' monkeys all a-eatin* 

oyster stew ; 
An' ma, she said she want to know where 

I heard such trash ; 
An' I telled her 't was th' peddler man 

'at pocketed th' cash 
Th' folks paid for handkerchiefs an' 

grease-eraser stuff, 
An' plays the banjo once 'n while when 

folks don't buy enough ; 
An' pa, he said, " Get up ! " to old Dob- 
bin, an' he run ; 
An' th' Fourth o' July 's over, an' I 'd had 

th' bestest fun. 



JES' BEFORE CHRISTMAS 



JES' BEFORE CHRISTMAS 

Pa says 'at when he 's a httle boy like 

me 
He 'd always mind his papa, an' was good 

as he could be, 
An' jes' before Christmas was better 'n 

anything, 
Jes' 'spectin' every minute what Santa 

Clans would bring ; 
Toot-horn-day wan't half so good, he 

says it wan't, as this. 
An' he was jes' as good, he says, so Santa 

would n't miss. 

So night before Christmas I set by 

grandma's knee. 
An' she tells a lot o' stories 'bout a little 

boy like me, 
'At was borned in a manger, an' how 

some men were led 
By a star 'at shined in heaven to his 

rough an' humble bed ; 



JES' BEFORE CHRISTMAS 7 

An' then she tells o' Santa Claus, an' of 

his beard of snow, 
An' how goodest boys in all th' world is 

all he wants to know. 

An' then I hang my stockin' by the chim- 
ney, an' pa, he 

Helps me hang it, an' laughs, an' has 
as good a time as me ; 

An' then I go to bed up in th' attic, an' I 
creep 

Down in th' clothes an' try to stay until 
I go to sleep ; 

For I think of all th' funny things 'at 
come at night up there, 

An' when I listen careful, I can hear 
them on th' stair. 

Sleepin' in th' attic jes' before Christmas 

comes, 
Dreamin' o' sleds an' things, an' imps, an' 

skates an' drums, 
An' fairies, an' Santa Claus, an' books, 

an' candy cats, 
An' listening to noises o' creepy things 

an* rats, 



8 JES' BEFORE CHRISTMAS 

An wonderin' if pa, when he's a little 

kid, 
Knew 'at Santa's always watchin', an 

saw everything he did, — 

Makes you glad when morning comes, 

an' when th' firstest light 
Comes peekin' in th' window, an' keeps 

a-growin' bright. 
You grab your clothes up in your hands, 

an scoot down stairs. 
An' creep in beside your mother all 

trembly with the scares — 
I tell you what, it 's jolly, when you bring 

your stockin' in. 
With nuts an' sweets an' oranges, an' 

books an' everythin' — 
An' pa, he laughs a-watchin' you, an' says 

he 's glad at he 
Has got a little feller to give presents to, 

like me. 



SQUIRE STEBBINSS REMARKS 



SQUIRE STEBBINS'S REMARKS 

It was on my last vacation, 

Up among the Vermont farms, 
Where nature is most prodigal 

With all her wondrous charms, 
While I 's at Farmer Stebbins's 

With the baby and my wife, 
Enjoying every minute 

And forgetting city life, 
I noticed, with amazement 

And a feeling of alarm. 
No boys or girls were left to help 

The old folks on the farm. 
So I questioned Farmer Stebbins, 

And what the old man said 
Has for months been wrestling 

On the inside of my head. 
" No, there ain't no boys to speak of, 

As you have jest remarked ; 
They 've all gone to th' city 

An' in business have embarked. 



10 SQUIRE STEBBINS'S REMARKS 

Some are runnin' hoss-cars, 

An' some are in th' stores ; 
Some are on th' steam-cars, 

An' some are doin' chores ; 
Some are clerks in restaurants, 

Some work in th' shops ; 
Some are loafin' round, I guess, 

But none are raisin' crops. 
They 're in every kind o' business. 

As near as I can larn, 
Exceptin' raisin' eatin' crops 

An' workin' on th' farm ; 
Why, there 's William Henry Harrison — 

An' that 's my youngest son — 
Comes up here every summer 

With his fishin' pole an' gun. 
Rigged up in striped trousers 

An' patent leather shoes, 
A white cravat an' collar on. 

An' head chock full o' news. 
Well, he gets, he says, twelve dollars 

A-workin' in a store. 
An' says how he 's expectin' 

A couple dollars more. 



SQUIRE STEBBINS'S REMARKS 

I '11 allow that 's rousin' wages, 

With two weeks a year to play, 
An' all the time a-gettin' 

That two dollars every day. 
Then there 's Peleg an' Josephus, 

Samuel, Theodore an' John, 
A-gettin' jest sich wages. 

An' all workin' — off an* on ! 
But mother 'n I keep at it 

In our slow an' easy way, 
A-workin' when th' sun shines, 

An' when it rains we play. 
Sometimes we send a present 

Down to the boys, you know ; 
Like a barrel o' potatoes, 

A peck o' beans o' so. 
Sometimes we get a letter 

A-statin' times is bad, 
Which means about ten dollars 

From th' pocket o' their dad. 
Why, dum it, mother 's sent 'em 

In good, clean solid cash — 
Not a-countin' pork an' taters, 

Butter 'n' eggs, an' all sich trash, 



[2 SQUIRE STEBBINS'S REMARKS 

But in good, clean hard-earned dollars 

Got from the stuff we 've sold 
From this 'ere old deserted farm — 

More 'n a tater sack would hold. 
What puzzles me the most is, 

How th' boys will get along 
When th' farm is sold et auction 

After we are dead an' gone." 



THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY 



THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY 

When the buttercups come in the med- 
der an' make it all yeller like gold, 

An' the daisies out'n the paster grow 
white as they slowly unfold, 

An' the robin says it is mornin', an' the 
yeller bird gladdens the sight. 

Or the sun overhead says noonday, or 
the whippoorwill says it is night. 

When the breezes softly meander out 
over the medders which give 

Back the perfume of spring joinin' sum- 
mer, oh, then it 's a blessin' ter 
live 
An' dream as the hours slip by, 
An' deep in the clovers lie 

To wait for the dreary rustle o' the brown 
leaves by-an'-by. 

Oh, folks may call me lazy, an' good for 
just nothin' at all 



14 THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY 

But ter lie out in the mowin'-lot where 

the daisies rise an' fall, 
An* nod an' blush, a-murmurin', " Good 

for nothin' " ! — but just 
Loafin', takin' life easy while others gather 

the dust ; 
But when roses borrow a fragrance from 

the air, distil it an' give 
It back with a double sweetness, oh, then 

't is a blessin' ter live 
Down midst the flowers so dear, 
In the summer time o' the year. 
For while others are ploughin' 'em under, 

I 'm lovin' the daisies here. 

Yes, I 'm penniless, maybe, an' holes 

may laugh in my coats. 
But if I 've had little for breakfast I 'm 

full of the magical notes 
O' the bobolink an' the sparrow, an' I 've 

drank o' the mystical sweet 
O' the summer air grown drowsy, an' 

hid me out o' the heat 
In the shade o' the beeches an' maples, 

where elves do the biddin' o' men. 





f#*^''^-^:?f'f-J'-^'^ 



THE TRAMP-S SOLILOQUY 



THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY 15 

Closin' my eyes an' whisperin', '' Let 'em 
think what they will, an' then 
Let 'em wander out over the lea, 
With you an' the birds, an' see 
If ever again they '11 wonder how a lazy 
tramp can be." 



l6 SLEEPIN' IN THE ATTIC 



SLEEPIN' IN THE ATTIC 

I REMEMBER when my pa said, " Jimmie, 

go to bed," 
A lot o' funny kind o' things went scootin' 

through my head ; 
For I slept in th' attic, where scare-things 

come at night, 
Where goblins grow from rafters, an' 

impses hide from sight, 
An' wait to jump out on yer when ye 're 

most asleep, 
An' where there 's funny crawlin' things 

'at creep, creep, creep 
Up on th' bed, an' grab yer throat, an' 

make yer cry an' groan. 
All jes' because yer have to sleep up 

attic all alone. 
An' I remember pa said he thought most 

any kid 
'Ould like to sleep up attic, — leastwise 

he always did. 



SLEEPIN' IN THE ATTIC 



17 



An' when yer hear th' rats a-runnin' 

round at night, 
An' yer think perhaps they 's bogie men 

with long white teeth 'at bite, 
An' then th' moon comes in an' lays a 

white streak on th' floor. 
An' yer go to sleep an' dream about th' 

bogie men some more. 
An' th' cobwebs on th' rafters look like 

fairy castles — most — 
An' yer think perhaps th' moonlight is 

Jimmie Nolan's ghost — 
For Jimmie when he worked here said 

'at ghosts lived in th' house. 
An' they was big er little like th' moon- 
shine er a mouse. 
An' so I tuck my head down where the 

bogie men can't see. 
Right in th' bed, an' that 's th' way fer 

little folks like me. 
An' once at night, I know, I see a funny 

thing an' screamed, 
An' pa came up an' laughed, an' said he 

guessed I only dreamed ; 
But it wa'n't a dream at all, I know, fer 

over by th' wall 



i8 SLEEPIN' IN THE ATTIC 

A yeller man hung by his neck, an' he 

was awful tall, 
An' he kept movin' back and forth an' 

kicked his legs at me ; 
An' pa said if I 'd look there in the morn- 

in' I would see 
'Twas jes' th' yeller corn 'at hung a dry- 
in', nothin' more ; 
Then he went out with th' candle an' 

shut the attic door. 
An* then I see him shake again, th' yeller 

man, an' crawl, 
A-hangin' by his neck there in th' dark 

upon th' wall ; 
An' then I tucked my head down in th' 

clothes an' could n't see, 
An' th' first I knew 't was mornin' an' pa 

was callin' me. 



ATRAMP'SSONG 19 



A TRAMP'S SONG 

Wanderin* in the June - time, down 

around the river, 
Outen hearin' o' the world, a-dozin' under 

kiver 
O' the alders an' the willers, all a-drippin* 

in the water, 
Kinder seems to me like livin' ; but they 

tell me how I 'd oughter 
Be in the sun a-workin', 'stead o' watchin' 

daisies growin', 
Be a-whettin' up a reaper, an' a-sweatin', 

an' a-mowin' 

Of 'em down to dry ; 
But I 'd somehow rather watch the 

beauties bobbin' an' a-growin'. 
But I can't tell why. 

Wanderin' in the flower time, up 'long 

the valley, 
Watchin' all the grasses grow, an' Nater's 

gorgeous rally 



20 A TRAMP'S SONG 

From the wind-storms o' winter ; med- 
ders growin' yeller, 

The brooks a-singin' happily, the sky 
a-growin' meller, 

Catchin' up reflections o' hues the earth 's 
a-brewin', 

Kinder gawkin' at 'em meetin* in the dis- 
tance an' a-wooin', 

Or a lovin' here to He, 

Listenin' to the pigeons a-nestin' an' 
a-cooin', 

But I can't tell why. 

Sneakin' up an' down the creek, a-peekin' 
at the fishes, 

Runnin' over in my head a lazy lot o' 
wishes — 

Nothin' much to talk about — wish 'twas 
always summer, 

Er every skeeter et I 'd catch 'd turn a 
partridge drummer — 

Then jes' a-layin' dowh again, hands flap- 
pin' in the river, 

Outen hearin' o' the world, breathin' bless- 
in' s to the Giver 



A TRAMP'S SONG 



O' the earth an' meller sky, 
Contented Hke an' happy, jes' to watch 
the water quiver. 
But I can't tell why. 



22 THE IMP-HAUNTED POOL 



THE IMP-HAUNTED POOL 

There *s a river flows down by Jim No- 
lens's house, 
Jimmie said last spring when he 's here, 
With a big deep place 'at 's as still as a 
mouse. 
An' a rock what they jump from into 

the hole, 
An' a sandbar where they splash water 

an' roll. 
An* I want to go down to see Jim next 
year, 

An' pa said if I 's good 
'At I could. 

An' there 's lilies an' rushes an' cat-tails 
an' more 
Than a million tadpoles an' fish 
Grow there, so Jim says, an' sweet flag 
on the shore ; 
An' there 's fairies 'at sing on the 
mist-covered rocks, 



THE IMP-HAUNTED POOL 



23 



Where the foam dashes up, an' a gob- 
lin that talks 
In the night when it's dark, an' I 
wish 

I could go an' see Jim 
An' could swim. 

An' Jim says there *s alders grow by the 
deep place, 
An' there's impsies 'at live in the 
stream. 
An' when yer lay down on the bank, in 
yer face 
Yer will see them look up all wiry an' 

dance. 
An' squirm in the water, an' tumble 

an' prance, 
Jim says, an' I see it last night in a 
dream. 

An' 't was all jest as true, 
I tell you. 

It 's bully, Jim says, where a broad river 
flows. 
An' there 's mussrats an' turtles to see, 



24 THE IMP-HAUNTED POOL 

An' you lay in the shade of the willow 'at 
grows 
Close down by the bank, with your 

feet in the cool 
Sleeping lily-strewn brim of the Imp- 
Haunted Pool, 
An' Jim 's there, an' pa says 'at maybe 
I can go there some day, 
An' can stay. 



THE BOOGIE-MEN 



WHEN THE BOOGIE-MEN CAME 
ROUND 

When I 's a little feller, about knee- 
high to a toad, 
An' went to see my grandpa on the 

farm, 
I remember how it lay there, like a snake, 

the country road, 
Among the mountains winding like a 

giant's mighty arm ; 
I remember how my grandpa, with his 

glasses in his hair. 
Used to take me up an' ride me on his 

knee, 
An' tell me of the boogie-men that used 

to live out there. 
An' of fairies that might come to visit me ; 
Then in the dreamy twilight, when the 

purple shadows fell 
Across the road, an' covered all the 

ground. 



sd WHEN THE BOOGIE-MEN 

An' I was tucked all snugly in the great 
goose-feather bed, 

It was then the boogie-men came roam- 
in' round ; 

It was then the boogie-men danced on 
the bed, 

An' the sprites an' fairies danced about 
my head. 

For in the night they 'd be 
Grinnin' down at me. 

Till I covered up my head an' could n't 
see. 

The house was long an' lowly, an' the 
clapboards rough an' gray. 

Where the northern winds had pelted 
them with snow ; 

But the attic was my fairyland, where I 
loved to play 

Till the twilight came, but then I had to 

For it grew so still, I wondered if there 's 

boogie-men up there. 
An' I looked behind me when I started 

out, 




^^v 



CAME ROUND 27 

An' I crept along on tiptoe, all breathless, 

to the stair, 
Then I scampered down them quickly, 

with a shout ; 
But when the night came prowling, with 

the shadows in his hands, 
An' the moonlight scattered gold upon 

the ground. 
An' they tucked me up all snugly in the 

soft goose-feather bed. 
It was then the boogie-men came roamin' 

round ; 
It was then the boogie-men danced on 

the bed. 
An' the sprites an' fairies danced about 

my head. 

For in the night they 'd be 
Grinnin' down at me. 
Till I covered up my head an' could n't 

see. 



28 WHEN THE COWSLIPS 



WHEN THE COWSLIPS START TO 
GROW 

When the mayflowers in the spring 

Come bloomin' an' a-shakin' 
Perfume over everything, 
An' the year is wakin' 
From its sleepy, dreamy way, 

An' the gray 
On the hills begins to grow 
Greener as the moments flow. 
An' the pussy willows dance 
In the mellow breeze, an' prance, — 
I go down the meadow brook. 
With a line an' pole an' hook. 

An' a worm 

That will squirm 
Jes' enough to call 'em out, 
Shinin', whoopin', speckled trout. 
That 's the fun, I 'd let you know. 
When the cowslips start to grow. 



I 



START TO GROW 29 

When the show-time o' the year 

Goes up the hill a-sneakin*, 
If you 're round you '11 hear me cheer 

Like a wild March meetin'. 
When I take my fishpole out, 

Every trout 
In a dozen miles — they tell 
Rushes to an' fro pell-mell, 
For they know they soon will see 
Lots o' bait, but none o' me ; 
As slyly floats my hidden hook 
Through the rapids o' the brook ; 
With a curl 
Through the swirl ; 
Underneath the hanging rock, 
Then an eddy an' a shock. 
An' the reel begins to whirl. 
An' the line begins to curl. 
As I bring him slow an' strong 
Up the bank — ten inches long. 
That *s the fun, I 'd have you know. 
When the cowslips start to grow. 



30 THANK-TIME AN' LOAFIN'-TIME 



THANK-TIME AN' LOAFIN'-TIME 

Fun here in New England now, layin' by 

th' river, 
Watchin' where a trout lays hidin' under 

kiver ; 
Mud-turtles on a log close where that 

catbird screeches ; 
Sandpiper struttin' yon, where that bit 

o' beach is ; 
Sun so hot you 're thankful like jes' for a 

bit o' shadder, 
An' watchin' o' th' lilies bob makes you 

glad an' gladder. 
Kingfisher on a stub, still, like he was 

sleepin', 
Watchin' for a fish to come round his 

way a-creepin' ; 
Don't keer much for fish to bite, nor 

really think they oughter, 
'T would hurt 'em so, an' catchin' 'em 

would rumple up th' water. 



THANK-TIME AN' LOAFIN'-TIME 31 

Lazy like an' lovin' it, 'ithout a bit o' 

frettin', 
'Cos sometime next October, like, I '11 

get a pesky wettin'. 

Fun here in New England now, layin' by 
th' river, 

Or in th' corner uv a fence, hidin' under 
kiver 

Uv a alder bush, or apple-tree, or maybe 
uv a wilier. 

For a couch th' grass that's green, a 
boulder for a piller ; 

Snakes a-wigglin' in th' grass, hoppers 
hoppin' 'round you ; 

Kingbird screechin' overhead to show th' 
world he 's found you ; 

Buttercups an' daisies, an' th* tipsy-nod- 
din' clover. 

An' sky of blue with jest a few white 
clouds a-drif tin' over ; 

Day dreams an' loafin', an' a thank- 
prayer to th' Giver 

O' th' shadder o' th' willow hedge, an' 
alders by th' river ; 



32 THANK- TIME AN' LOAFIN'-TIME 

Greetin's to th' meller breeze singin' as 

it passes 
Through th' branches overhead, an' th' 

medder grasses. 
Thank - time an' loafin' - time, an' day 

dreams an' sleepin'. 
Fish -time an' wish -time, an' twihght- 

time a-creepin' 
Up along the mountain side, over hills an' 

ridges, 
Shuttin' out th' flowin' stream, valley, 

road, an' bridges. 



BIRD-SONGS AND RIVER-SONGS 33 



BIRD-SONGS AND RIVER-SONGS 

I 
Dreamin' in the mowin' lot, rompin' in 

the medder 
Where the daisies nod an' bhnk, growin' 

red an' redder ; 
Flashin' with the mornin* dew, tiltin' with 

the clover ; 
Tipsy in a mazy reel, up an' down an' 

over. 
In the corner of a fence, zigzag, bushy 

growin', 
Reelin' like a lazy snake, or a creek 

a-flowin' ; 
Out an' in among the brakes, out an' in 

an' under, 
Fillin' up a sleepy head, dreamy - head 

with wonder. 



34 BIRD-SONGS AND RIVER-SONGS 
II 

Jes' to dream, an' jes' to loaf, an' see the 

world go round you : 
Sprawlin' where the willow is, glad the 

shadder found you ; 
Layin' where the water flows, peekin' at 

the fishes. 
Curious to know jes' what a turtle thinks 

or wishes ; 
Wonderin' if the peep-birds love the 

sandy beaches, 
An' if yonder cat-bird thinks it 's music 

when he screeches ; 
Listenin' to the sleepy drone of the bee 

that passes 
In an' out among the flowers, honey 

bloom an' grasses. 

Ill 
Oh, yes ; I know I 'm lazy, an' it ain't 

the way to do 
If you want to raise a rumpus, an' split 

the world in two ; 
But I somehow rather roam about like the 

truant breezes. 



BIRD-SONGS AND RIVER- SONGS 35 

Goin' northward when it 's hot, southward 

when it freezes, 
An' let the world roll on its way, an' 

never trouble trouble : 
Or get myself into a fret about a burst- 
in' bubble : 
But layin' here contented like, dreamin' 

by the river, 
Not complainin' over-much, an' takin' 

what the Giver 
Has to give, an' thankin' Him for the 

perfumed roses : 
Bird - songs an' river - songs an' silent 

songs of posies. 



36 UP AN' DOWN THE RIVER 



UP AN' DOWN THE RIVER 

Jes' about this time o' year, lawsy, how 

I love it, 
Sneakin' in the mowin' lot, knee-deep or 

above it, 
With pink-white clover noddin' up, dew 

blinkin', you a-grinnin' 
An' kinder turnin' red an' wonderin' if 

folks would call it sinnin' 
To be where you 's a week afore, the 

time you went a-fishin' 
And did n't get no fish — because, well, 

jes' because you 's wishin' 
'At you could catch 'at muskrat on 

t' other side the river, 
'At jumped jes' when you threw your 

hook an' scooted under kiver, 
An' jes' because 'at maybe 'at you 's too 

lazy, sorter. 
An' did n't fish particular, an' did n't 

think you orter, 



UP AN' DOWN THE RIVER Z7 

An' I calculate as how, maybe, th' alders 

looked invitin' 
An' how th' skeeters likewise did th' 

biggest share o' bitin', 
Jes' layin' there full length, your feet 

a-floppin' in th' water, 
Kingfisher — wished, b' gosh, wished as 

how you 'd brought a 
Gun ~ up an' scoots, an' you, — well, 

you 's glad you had n't brought it. 
For you 'd had to lug it home again, an' 

't would n't fit your pocket. 
The river looks so cool like in the shadder, 

jes' to think it 
Any sweeter coolness an' you'd surely 

have to drink it. 

Sun so hot you kinder wish 'at all th' 

world was water. 
Or you 's a fish or turtle or a muskrat or 

an otter. 
All th* world tired like, sleepy like an* 

lazy. 
Air a-growin* hotter, too, dreamy like an' 

hazy, 



38 UP AN' DOWN THE RIVER 

An' you, jes' you, there by th' river 

dozin'. 
Wish you had a pocket full of river 'at 

was frozen. 
Catbird gone to sleep, tired an' sick 

o' squallin', 
Mud turtle on a log a-kinder sort o' 

fallin' 
Into th' river like, as if 'at he 's a-boatin'. 
Wish 'at you 's a turtle, too, in your shell 

a-floatin'. 



THEENDOFTHEROAD 39 



THE END OF THE ROAD 

I WAS born way back at th' end o' th' 
road, 
'Twas there my remembrance of 
things first was, 
An' there I Hved, played, worked, an' 
growed, 
Jes' natural like an' jes because 
I lived 
At th' end o' th' road. 

At th' end o' th' road 'twas much th' 
same 
This day or that — except 't was 
play 
When up from th' turnpike some one 
came, 
An' jest as long as they happened to 
stay 

An' talk. 

At th' end o' th' road. 



40 



THE END OF THE ROAD 



If I Strayed away I was glad to get 
home 
To th' little red house, where mo- 
ther an' dad 
An' I had a little world all our own, 
An' jes' as good as any one had. 
Out there 

At th' end o' th' road. 

From my attic window I 've looked amazed 
Hour after hour at th' turnpike's 
way, 
A yellowish streak, till I grew dazed, 

Wondering where an' in what long 
day 
I'd be 

At th' end o' th' road. 

Where did they come from, th' folks that 
would go 
Jogging along th' old turnpike ? 
An' most all strangers that I did n't know ; 
An' over th' hills — what was it like, 
Somewhere, 

At th' end o' th' road ? 



wy^ 



:Sfc' 



w. :■-.:■ ■ T 



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4 ->. 'm 




^ii<*^f^ 




AT THE END OF THE ROAD 



THEENDOFTHEROAD 41 

One day me an' ma an' dad 

Started off with th' old gray mare, 
On th' longest ride I 'd ever had, 

An' 't was almost night when we 
got there, 
I thought. 

At th' end o' th' road. 

When I got up next day an' see 

The road still winding, winding 
down, 
*T was th' biggest world, it seemed to me, 
From where th' end was, through 
our town. 
Up home. 

At th' end o' th' road. 

I 've travelled that road now many a year, 
An' I 've found some good an' 
known some bad. 
Been up hill an' down, an' I 'm not clear 
If I '11 be sorry or I '11 be glad. 
To get 

At th' end o' th' road. 



42 MY DEAR OLD ATTIC ROOM 



MY DEAR OLD ATTIC ROOM 

Dreamin', a-lettin' my thoughts wander 

back o'er the path of time ! 
Jes* layin' here an' contentedly lettin' 

old memories rhyme ! 
Jumbled all up together like — lettin' 'em 

come at will — 
Up through the years o' that quiet past, 

grown misty like, until 
They reach far back to the village street, 

an' a house as used to be 
Nestlin' there so quietly, an' I somehow 

seem to see 
My dear old attic room. 

A queer old place, that attic, with its 
rafters webbed an' gray. 

An' it kinder seems as if I was a-lyin' 
there to-day. 

On the sweet husk-bed by the winder, 
watchin' the sunshine fall 



MY DEAR OLD ATTIC ROOM 



43 



In tangled, silver stretches over the floor 

an' wall ; 
A-hearin' the robins singin', an' a-hearin' 

the soothin' play 
O' the brook close by in the medder — 

jes' dreamin' the hours away 
In my old attic room. 

Jes' lettin' the drowsy murmur o' the 

bumble-bees an' flies 
Awake the fond remembrance o' that 

dear loved one who lies 
A-restin' there in the Acre, that the Lord 

claims for his own. 
Where He lays his weary ones to sleep 

an' rest alone ; 
An' out there across the valley, on the 

hillside, day by day. 
The white stones gleam in solemn rows, 

as the sunshine dies away 
From my dear attic room. 

What, there once more as I used to be, 

this drowsy afternoon ? 
I dreamily rest upon the bed, an' listen 

to the tune 



44 MY DEAR OLD ATTIC ROOM 

The bobolink is pipin' out there in the 
mowin' lot. 

It 's real, but — but I 'm onsartin whether 
I 'm there or not ! 

Off there 's the city's steeples an' chim- 
ney-smokes that creep 

Into the heavens ! No, I'm — j es' dream- 
in' myself to sleep. 
My dear old attic room. 



HOW -DE-DO 45 



HOW-DE-DO 

Say "how-de-do," an' say "good-by," 
Meet an' shake, an' then pass by ; 
Ain't much difference twixt the two, 
Say "good-by " or "how-de-do." 
" How-de-do " with chilly heart, 
Ain't much difference meet or part ; 
Jest a look, an' jest a bow, 
Sometimes only jest a " how ; " 
Ain't much difference which they say, 
" How-de-do " or t' other way. 

Meet a friend — yer grasp his hand. 
An' jes' stand, an' stand, an' stand — 
Glad yer met an' hate ter part. 
Kinder trembly in the heart. 
Neighbors, lived on " Moody Hill," 
He was " Tom " an' you was " Bill," 
Kinder stop an' look an' say 
" How-de-do > " an' then " Good-day ! " 



46 HOW -DE-DO 

Been away from home a spell, 
Swing the gate back, stand, an' well. 
Kinder don't know what ter do, 
Heart thumps like 't was bustin' through. 
Said " good-by " a year afore — 
Betsey 's standin' in the door — 
Said '* good-by," but "how-de-do" 
Seems the strangest o' the two. 
Brace right up an' waltz right in, 
Shake the tremble from yer chin, 
Betsey 's waitin' there for you : 
Waltz right in with — " How-de-do ? " 



IMI'TV ODD WIN'J ICKS AND M O I< K 47 



MFIV ODD WIN'I'KKS AND MORE 

'Iv.Li. yc oi wli.'il, I w;is lliinkiij'? Now 

really there ain't much to tell ; 
I 's settin' here l(jokii»' at Mandy, an' 

thinkin' of, — Ihinkin' oj, well, 
I 's thinkin' we 'd lived here together for 

fifly good winters, an' more, 
An' neitlier, like some I could mention, 

has grown to think t' other a bore ; 
An' I thought o' that tangle, divorces, 

where people that chank at th' 

bit, 
Go to law with all rnanjicr of stories, for 

gettin' their hitchin' line split ; 
An' I thought how we 'd worked in th' 

harness a-lovin' each other th* 

more, 
r'or kiiowin' that neither was perfect, an' 

knowin' what t' other one bore. 
Yes, Mandy an' f in th' forties started 

out to travel this road 



48 FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE 

An' we did n't start out without knowin' 

that each one had shouldered a 

load; 
Nor we did n't start out on th' journey 

a-smirkin' and thinkin' we 'd done 
The cunnin'est thing in creation, with a 

future all honey an' fun ; 
An' we did n't start out in a mansion with 

a mortgage some twenty feet long ; 
But we shouldered our load an' looked 

happy, an' mingled some work 

with our song. 
Thinkin' of ? Well, I was thinkin' that 

Mandy, who used to be fair, 
Is fairer now with her wrinkles than she 

is in that picture up there ; 
Fairer now in th' autumn, with her 

tresses all drifted with snow. 
Than she was as a pink an' white maiden, 

some fifty-odd winters ago. 
An' that was n't all by a jugful ; somehow 

there 's a picture I see 
Of me when first I saw Mandy, an' 

Mandy when first she saw me : — 
An' then as time journeys onward, I can 

see her one night at th' bars. 




FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE (Youth) 



FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE 49 

As I passed by with a greetin', and her 

eyes wandered off to th' stars ; — 
An' then th' picture gets jumbled, an' all 

I can see is her face 
Crowned with a heavenly halo, a God- 
given message of grace. 
An' after that life was in earnest, an' its 

burdens were not over light. 
But we both gave a hand toth' tow-rope, 

an' measured our hearts with the 

fight. 
So th' years passed on, — they were 

merry, with sometimes a good bit 

of sad, 
But we never thought much of com- 

plainin', an' we could n't found 

time if we had. 
— Thinkin' of? Well, I was thinkin' 

that Mandy, who always was fair. 
Was never so sweet as this minute, with 

th' snowdrifts laid in her hair ; 
An' I 's thinkin', — I 's thinkin' that 

maybe if I was to go th' long road 
Ere th' Lord saw fit to call Mandy, 't were 

a pity to double her load ; 



50 FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE 

An' then I was thinkin' how maybe that 

Mandy might journey ahead, 
An' leave me alone in my sorrow, alone 

with my beautiful dead ; 
An' then I could n't help praying that 

maybe th' good Lord would see 
It was best that He call us together, my 

Mandy, my sweetheart an' me. 



HO! BONNY BOYI 51 



HO! BONNY BOY! 

Ho ! bonny boy, with cheek of brown, 

In the river wading. 
What the dreams within your head, 

Slowly, slowly fading ? 
Vacation 's nearly gone, you say. 

With school-time growing nearer, 
And every moment of the day. 

Is growing sweetly dearer. 

Slowly summer steals away, 

Vacation joys are fading. 
While every moment is so dear, 

In the river wading. 
Turtle sleeping on a log, 

Sand-peep where the beach is ; 
Berries growing in the bog, 

Where the cat-bird screeches. 

But the river, bonny boy. 

Is not always sleeping ; 



52 II ! B O N N Y B O Y I 

There is work for it and you, 

There is joy and weeping. 

Time in summer for your fun, 
Time to work in winter, 

For the race is always won 

By the fleetest sprinter. 

Ho ! curly head, this lesson learn, 

The world is only seeming 
To the boy who idly stands 

And wastes the day in dreaming. 
There 's a work for you somewhere, 

And a way to follow ; 
There 's a joy for every care, . 

A hill for every hollow. 



WHEREAWAY 53 



WHEREAWAY 

Whereway, my bonny boy ? 

Bonny boy with eyes of blue, 
Tattered hat and curly hair, 

Curly hair just peeking through ; 
School is over, so you say ; 
Vacation 's at its height to-day ; 
But wherefore do you roam, I pray ? 

Whereaway ? Whereaway ? 

Whereaway, my barefoot boy ? 

Barefoot boy with freckled face ; 
Happy with your idle dreams, 

Idle dreams of distant place ; 
Dreaming of the rainbow's gold. 
Of the lamps which fairies hold ; 
Dreaming all the summer day. 

Whereaway ? Whereaway ? 

Listen to me, dreamy boy. 

Dreamy boy with jaunty mien. 



54 



WHEREAWAY 



While I tell you of a land, 

Of a land you 've never seen ; 
Where there 's work for you to do, 
Work for dreamy boys like you ; 
It 's the Future land, — but say ; 

Ho ! dreamer — whereaway ? 

Ho ! with your toad-skin-booted feet ; 

Bonny boy, what battles new 
In the dim Fairyland of dreams. 

Land of dreams are there for you? 
But he only casts his eyes 
Downward, looking dreamy wise. 
And I cannot make him say 

Whereaway ? Whereaway ? 



VACATION 55 



VACATION 

Vacation is coming, you 're singing, my 
lad, 
Your heart 's brimming over with joy, 
And visions pass dreamily over the glass, 
Mingle and slip in a fay-fading mass, — 
With your toe in the sand and the dews 
on the grass. 
Bare-footed, tow-headed boy. 

School will be over; you're happy, my 
lad. 
Your head brimming over with fun ; 

There 's a river runs down by grand- 
father's mill. 

And fishing and boating and swimming 
until, — 

But there 's a little red schoolhouse here 
on the hill. 
And a week before school will be 
done. 



56 VACATION 

Vacation is coming ; you know it, my lad, 
And your heart beats a tattoo of joy ; 
But visions are visions, and you '11 never 

see 
When the pleasures come how there ever 

could be 
So large a dream-boat on so small a sea, — 
I 'm thinking, my tow-headed boy. 

But the world rolls over too swift, my 
lad. 
To suit your notion of fun. 
While your sunburnt face and the rimless 

crown 
Of the hat you wear, and your feet of 

brown 
Will hint some night, when you lie down, 
That the race was nobly run. 



THE LITTLE RED SCHOOLHOUSE 57 



THE LITTLE RED SCHOOLHOUSE 

There 's a little red schoolhouse 

I knew when a boy 
That stands where the winds blow chill — 
The clapboards dance in the winter's 

air 
And the broken windows grimly stare 
For a ghost of a school is keeping 
there 
To-night on the windy hill. 

Yes, the little red schoolhouse 

I knew when a boy, 
When the soft wind whispered low 
When the blue sky laughed from over- 
head 
At the birds, and laughed at what 

they said, 
And the great broad world stretched 
out ahead 
Out into the sunset's glow. 



58 THE LITTLE RED SCHOOLHOUSE 

For the little red schoolhouse 

Holds many a dream 
Woven into 'the might-have-been, 

With the happy hours and days so 

free, 
That, looking back through the years, 

I see 
Them gazing up with reproof for me 
And the road I Ve journeyed in. 

But the little red schoolhouse 

Has opened its door 
At last to the wind and rain. 

And a ghost of a school is keeping 

there, 
While the master stands by his ghostly 

chair. 
And the scholars bow their heads of 
air 
To the ghost of his old-time reign. 



SINGASONGOFHAPPY 59 



SING A SONG OF HAPPY 

Sing a song of happy, 

Glad as I can be, 
Don't have much, but what I have 

Is quite a lot for me. 

When the clover blossoms 

I can smell the smell, 
An' when they shoot pop-crackers, 

I can whoop an' yell. 

When folks go to circuses 

I can see 'em go. 
An' when they drink pink lemonade 

I can see it flow. 

Holes are in my t rouses, — 

Many 's they will hold, 
An' every hole is worth to me 

Twice its weight in gold. 



6o SINGASONGOFHAPPY 

No, I ain't no dudelet, 
Nor peacock in a tree, 

But what I be, I tell yer what, 
Is quite a lot for me. 



JUST TO BE A BOY 



JUST TO BE A BOY 

Sing ho, for happy times, 

Those days of old, 
Where every rainbow ended 

In a pot of gold. 

Where the river sparkled 

Silver in the sun, 
And the hours went laughing 

Past us on the run. 

When all the days were cheer days, 

And our troubles flew 
Out of hearing quickly. 

So the pleasures grew. 

Those were never-mind days, 
Days of thoughtless youth, 

When the hours went singing 
Dream songs of truth. 



6i 



62 JUSTTOBEABOY 

Those were the true days, 
When faith was deep, 

And the bees went humming 
Sweet songs of sleep. 

Those were the song days, 

Glad days of joy, 
When earth's greatest blessing 

Was just to be a boy. 



IF YOU WILL. 63 



IF YOU WILL 

There's no use of sighing the whole 
year through, 

Not a bit ; 
No use fretting because it blows, 
There 's always sunshine after it snows ; 
And there 's no use treading on people's 
toes, 

Not a bit. 

There 's always a lot to be thankful for. 

If you will ; 
And people you can be thankful to. 
And plenty of things that you can do 
To make other people thankful to you, 

If you will. 

Just as easy to laugh as sigh 

Any day ; 
Just as easy to make folks glad. 
As to be always whining and sad, 
And wailing because your luck is bad — 

Every day. 



64 IFYOUWILL 

So brush the cobwebs out of your eyes, 

And smile; 
Look straight in the face of the world, 

and grin ; 
If it knocks you down, just try it again, 
And don't dream over ** what might have 
been," 

But smile. 



GOLLY, DON'T YOU CARE 65 



GOLLY, DON'T YOU CARE 

6.00 A. M. 

Sing a song of happy, 
Hip, hip, hoop, hooray ; 

Bet you I 'm the gladdest 
Boy you will see to-day. 

Got some poppin' crackers, 
A flag and shooter gun, 

An' snake fire you throw at girls 
To make them yell an' run. 

A pocket of torpedoes. 

An* a couple toot-horns too. 

Tell you what I 'm happy, 
Don't you wish 't was you ? 

6.00 p. M. 
Sing a dirge of sorry. 

Sore as I can be. 
Gunpowder in my eye 

So 's 'at I can't see. 



66 GOLLY, DON'T YOU CARE 

Head it aches like bustin', 

Fingers achin' too, 
'Cept the two 'at 's missin' 

Where they always grew. 

Trousers torn to flinders, 

Head patched here an' there, 

One arm broken twice in two, 
But, golly, don't you care. 

Sing a song of glory, 

Fourth of July 's through, 

An' I can't help a-wishin' 
'At I was whole like you. 



SUCCESS 67 



SUCCESS 

There 's many a road, 

My lad, you '11 find. 

To reach the town of Never ; 

There are byways steep, 

And highways long, 

Which you may travel 

With jest and song, 

To the ruined town of Never. 

There 's only a road 

Of up-hill work 

By the toll-gate of Endeavor ; 

And there 's study hard 

With little play, 

But you '11 find success 

At the end of the way. 

If you will but endeavor. 

So study, my lad. 

As the world goes round, 



68 SUCCESS 

And shun the road to Never, 
By the steep decline of Pretty-soon, 
And the broad highway of By-and-by, — 
And take the up-hill winding track 
By the shining pool of I-will-try, 
And the toll-gate of Endeavor. 



WHEN I WAS A BOY 69 



WHEN I WAS A BOY 

'T WAS a wonderful thing, the river I 
knew 
When I was a barefooted boy ; 
And the swimming-hole near where the 
water-flags grew, 
With its sand-bar, was ever a bountiful 

When I was a boy, — 
But a boy. 

'Twas a wonderful thing, and day after 
day 
I 've sat by its waters and dreamed, 
And watched it flow past in an endless 
way, 
Dancing from nowhere, to nowhere it 
gleamed. 

When I was a boy, — 
But a boy. 



70 WHEN I WAS A BOY 

To nowhere it gleamed, yet the castles I 
built 
In that nowhere for beauty were famed ; 
And knights in bright armor had many a 
tilt 
With Robin Hood robbers and rob- 
bers unnamed, 

When I was a boy, — 
But a boy. 

And down where the alders grew by the 
deep place 
And the water spread out like a lake, 
There were imps, and I 've seen them 
look up in my face, 
Then wiggle, and dance, and squirm 
like a snake, 

When I was a boy, — 
But a boy. 

And when sister came, a wee little tot. 

All bald like a sawdust child ; 
And I asked where they got her, pa said 
that he thought 




4 








WHENIWASABOY 71 

I 'd find her tracks down by the river, 
and smiled, 
When I was a boy, — 
But a boy. 

So the little one grew, till one summer 
day 
A cloud came over the stream, 
And the mother went out in the misty 
way 
The little one came, like a beautiful 
dream. 

When I was a boy, — 
But a boy. 

But days have sped since then, and the 
years 
Have passed like a cycle of dreams ; 
Beautiful dreams that have vanished in 
tears, 
So like those of old times that often it 
seems 

I 'm still but a boy, — 
But a boy. 



72 WHENIWASABOY 

For somehow there 's left when the 
dreams disappear 
A ghost of a dream in their place, 
That beckons me on with a voice of good 
cheer, 
And a smile on its ghost of a face, 
Which says, you 're a boy, — 
But a boy. 

So I look down the years to the river and 
see 
It dancing the same as of old ; 
And I follow it up from the boundless sea 
Through the misty years to the years 
of gold. 

When I was a boy, — 
But a boy. 



SING, HO 73 



SING, HO 

Sing, ho ! don't you care, 
What 's the use of fretting 

Because your neighbor over there 
All the plums is getting ? 

It 's his turn to have the pie, 

Sitting in his corner ; 
Time will pass, and by and by 

You '11 be Johnny Horner. 

Don't you care if weather 's cold, 
Summer 's coming later ; 

Silver 's passing, there '11 be gold 
For the patient waiter. 

Sing, ho ! for better days, 
Let the world roll over, 

It will never change its ways 
For snowflake or clover. 



74 SING, HO 

Take things as they come your way, 
Let the world go humming, 

A donkey teaching it to bray 
But with a hop-toad chumming. 

Sing your song, and go your gait, 
And never trouble trouble ; — 

Life is passing, it won't wait. 
To-morrow is a bubble. 



SING A SONG OF DON'T YOU CARE 75 



SING A SONG OF DON'T YOU CARE 

Sing a song of pretty soon, 

Let the world roll over, 
While we take it easy like, 

Loafing in the clover. 

Sing a song of by and by, 
In a year or two or so-so, — 

Let the minutes pass their way, 
And the great world go-so. 

What have we to do with woe } 
What to do with sorrow } 

Laugh and let the foolish ones 
All the trouble borrow. 

Never mind if showers come. 

Sunshine follows after ; 
Listen to the bobolinks 

And imitate their laughter. 



76 SING A SONG OF DON'T YOU CARE 

Sing a song of don't you care ; 

For worry is a bubble, 
Full of wind and make believe, 

And if you '11 have it, trouble. 

But if you '11 charge it, with a grin, 
You '11 find it thin and hollow. 

And all you Ve got to do is laugh 
And half the world will follow. 

So sing a song of pretty soon. 

Let the world roll over. 
And take it easy while you can, 

Loafing in the clover. 



AIRSHIPS n 



AIRSHIPS 

In the twilight's dreamy glow, 
Gliding softly, airships go, 
Airships painted wondrous hue 
Of earth's gray and heavenly blue. 
Wove of filmy stuff that swings 
Where the night moth gets her wings, 
Wove of spider lace and mist, 
Opal, pearl, and amethyst. 

As the airships drift along, 
Earthward falls the dream of song 
Like the soft breeze through the white 
Apple bloom at noon of night, 
Like the whisper of a word 
By the dreaming lover heard. 
Like the echo of a kiss 
When a maiden answers yes. 

Wove of filmy stuff so thin 
Mortal sight they never win, 



78 AIRSHIPS 

Wonder-whist and dreamy slow 
Drift the airships to and fro 
Through the deep sea of the night, 
With their cargoes of delight, 
To some harbor far, I ween, 
Only by the fireflies seen. 



SING, HO! MY FRECKLED ROVER 79 



SING, HO! MY FRECKLED ROVER 

Sing, ho ! my freckled rover, 

Boy with the tousled hair, 

With dew on the grass. 
Your feet in the clover, 

Sing, ho ! and free from care. 
Vacation days are drawing nearer, 
Newer joys are growing dearer, 
River sounds are whispering clearer, 

Clearer as they pass. 

Sing, ho ! my jolly rover, 

Boy with the freckled face, 

With your feet in the dew. 
My little brown lover, 

Sing, ho ! with jaunty grace. 
All your dreams are filled with wonder, 
Robin Hood and pleasure plunder, 
Till the days are split asunder, 

Packed with joys for you. 



8o SING, HO! MY FRECKLED ROVER 

But, ho ! my freckled rover, 
Boy with the tattered hat, 
Is there nothing for you, 
With your feet in the clover, 

But sunshine and joy and all that ? 
There's a nobler work than merely 

dreaming. 
There's a truer world than just the 

seeming. 
There's a world with love and labor, 
teeming 
With goodly hopes and new. 

So, ho ! my freckled rover, 

Boy with the dreamy eyes, 

Come up from the grass 
And the dew-gemmed clover, 

Where the rainbow treasure lies. 
Come up and sing of a glad endeavor, 
Of a will that 's strong and heart that 

never 
Will allow the will and work to sever 

As the watches daily pass. 



THE HUNTER DISMAYED 8i 



THE HUNTER DISMAYED 

I RAN away last Saturday 

With my pea-shooter gun, 
Down in the meadow by the brook, 

And had the bestest fun ! 
I played I was a hunter bold, 

Who sailed across the seas. 
And killed the big Jum-giger-booms, 

Beneath the Bum-bum-trees. 

I shot the great Cha-hoo-a-hoos 

While flying in the air. 
And caught a Wee-wah-fu-o-fum, 

With a line of giant's hair ; 
I journeyed to the northern pole 

Upon a Boa's back, 
And caught the Musk-o-do-o-dum, 

And put him in my sack. 

And when my ma came after me, 
And I was soaking wet 



82 THE HUNTER DISMAYED 

(For I 'd fallen in the water 

When I fought the Fouin-get), 

And when she put the dingers on, 
And sent me off to bed, 

The glory of the battle slipped 
From out my dreamy head. 



SWEET BEGUILING 83 



COME UP FROM THE SWEET BE- 
GUILING 

Ho ! bonny boy, with the freckled face, 

Freckled face and smiling ; 
Tattered hat and jaunty grace, 

Dreamy thoughts beguiling ; 
Down where the willows nod and dance, 

Down by the sandy beaches. 
Noting the rippling waves that prance, 

And the song the catbird screeches. 

Ho ! I say, with your dreamy eyes, 

Dreamy eyes and dancing. 
There 's a land out yon where the rain- 
bow lies. 
And the sunset gold is glancing. 
*Tis the land of Dreams, where fairies 
dwell, 
The land of Laughing Water ; 
But down in the vale, I 've heard them 
tell, 
Is the baneful land of Loiter. 



84 SWEET BEGUILING 

So, ho ! my lad, with the freckled face, 

Freckled face and smiling, 
Lift your eyes from the haunted place, 

And the fairies' sweet beguiling. 
Come up from the river's willowed shore ; 

Come up from the sandy beaches, 
And lend your ears to the muffled roar 

Of the wind on the hillside reaches. 

For there 's truth in life, my boy, you '11 
find, 

And dreams are the play of fairies 
That come to dwell in the sleepy mind 

Of the boy who only tarries. 
So, lad, come up from the loiter place. 

From the river and the willows, 
Up towards the morning set your face, 

And against the rocks and billows. 



VACATIONISOVER 85 



VACATION IS OVER 

Summer is going, is going, my lad, 
My lad with the fountain of laughter, 

That wells in your eyes, where the mis- 
chief lies. 
And flows and follows after. 

There 's a little red schoolhouse upon 
the hill, 
And, lad, with eyes that wander 
Slyly in through the open door, 
Where the western sun scatters gold on 

the floor, 
Are you thinking of days that have gone 
before. 
Over the hill out yonder ? 

Come, curly head, why Hnger there, 
With brimming eyes that wonder ? 
Do you see where the sun's path stretches 
far, 



86 VACATIONISOVER 

Over silver cliff and golden bar, 
Up to dreamland's flashing star 

And fear that the feet may blunder ? 

Gird with courage your loins, my lad, 

Sprinkle the days with pleasure. 
Gathering wise thoughts one by one, 
Gathering rays of the morning sun, 
That men may say when the race is run, 
" His life was a brimming measure." 

Think only of making the day that is 

Better than all preceding. 
The future is only an " it may be," — 
The past drowned deep in eternity ; 
To-day is yours, and we shall see 

By the record the boy succeeding. 

Summer is going, is going, my lad, 
My lad with the fountain of laughter, 

That wells in your eyes, where the mis- 
chief lies. 
And flows and follows after. 



THE COUNTRY STAGE S7 



THE COUNTRY STAGE 

The old country stage was a wonderful 
thing, 
And strange were the journeys it made, 
As it daily passed with its clattering 

load. 
And a cloud of dust out over the road, 
Through the dreamy mists where the 
river flowed. 
And the sunset purple wavered. 

And the driver, too, with his flowing 
beard, 
Was a man of knowledge ever ; 
And I remember I asked one day, 
" Where do you go as you bowl away ? " 
And he smiled as he said in his cheery 
way, 
"Yon, into the land of laughter." 

And once I asked of my grandsire gray 
What lay o'er the purple ridges, 



88 THECOUNTRY STAGE 

And he drew me close in his arms, and 

said, 
As he placed a hand on my golden 

head, 
" There are people, child, in that land of 

dread, — 
People and crime and sorrow." 

So one day I rode by the driver's side. 
To seek for the world's glad laughter ; 

But I found, as I journeyed day by day. 

And the mists of the morning cleared 
away. 

That the lives of men with sad and gay 
Are filled, a brimming measure. 



CUPID'SMISS 89 



CUPID'S MISS 

When Cupid, with his bow and arrows, 
Came o'er the hills a-roaming, 

I stood with Peggy at the bars, 
Crying, " Co-boss, co-boss-co ! 
You must come, for we must go." 
Peggy looked so sweet, I know 

I trembled as I watched the stars 
In the early gloaming. 

I saw the fellow choose an arrow. 
As he came a-roaming ; 

The cows went past us through the bars, 

And I stood counting them, nor knew 

The number counted when all through, 

But I 'd found where Peggy's dimples 

grew. 

Looking past her at the stars 
In the early gloaming. 

When Cupid shot his mystic arrow, 
As he came a-roaming, 



90 CUriD'SMlSS 

It hit a bluebird on the bars, 

And though it knocked the poor bird 
dumb, 

It never grazed my heart, I vum. 

For there stood Peggy chewing gum, 
Looking past me at the stars 

In the early gloaming. 



TROUBLE' 91 



TROUBLE 

I hain't no patience with them folks 

that 's f rettin' all the time, 
Jes' 'cause th' whole creation don't walk 

to their chalk-line, 
Who go about complainin* 'cause Jim 

Jones or Thomas Snow 
Don't agree with them in politics, or to 

their meetin' go ; 

Who grumble et th' sunshine, an' grumble 

if it rains. 
Who grumble when they 're well th' same 

as when they 're racked with pains ; 
They grumble 'bout their breakfast, an' 

so on through th' day 
From dinner time to supper time they 

fret and scold away. 

Th* whole great world they seem ter 
think will stop a-turnin' 'round 

As soon as they, poor things, are dead 
an' six foot under ground ; 



92 TROUBLE 

An' so they fret an' fume about an' try 

to regulate 
All mundane an' all heavenly things, th' 

little an' th' great. 

These folks hain't had no trouble, that 's 

how it looks to me ; 
They 're loaded up with self-conceit, real 

life they cannot see. 
No, these folks hain't had no trouble, 

misfortunes, sickness, death ; 
Their trouble was jes' born in them 'cause 

they have to draw their breath. 



FUN HERE IN NEW ENGLAND 93 



FUN HERE IN NEW ENGLAND 



There 's fun here in New England when 

the sleighbells jingle jing, 
And the runners gliding swiftly through 

the crystals softly sing ; 
A steady nag for company, and a girl 

with cheeks aglow, 
A coon-skin robe about you, and the 

glisten on the snow ; 
Stars a-shining softly, eyes a-beaming 

bright. 
Fun here in New England on a winter's 

night, — 
Fun here when the sleighbells jingle 

jingle jing, 
Fun here when the runners through the 

crystals sing. 

When the stars are bright 
On a winter's night, 
Fun here in New England, jingle jing. 



94 FUN HERE IN NEW ENGLAND 
II 

Fun here in New England when the 

backlogs glow, 
Joining in the music of the softly falling 

snow; 
Popcorn and apples, with the cider in the 

jug; 
Up and down the middle, close enough 

to hug ; 
Swing your partners, easy now, when the 

fiddle sings, 
Fun here in New England when the 

laughter rings, — 
Fun here when the sleighbells jingle 

jingle jing, 
Fun here when the runners through the 

crystals sing. 

When the stars are bright, 
On a winter's night. 
Fun here in New England, jingle jing. 



HANDLE WITH CARE 95 



"HANDLE WITH CARE, ELSE THE 
STITCHES WILL FALL" 

In the basket carefully laid away, 
Grandmother's unfinished knitting-work 

lay. 
*' Handle with care, else the stitches will 

fall," 
Grandmother said, as I picked out the 

ball. 

Once more I sit by her old armchair. 
And into her work-basket look — and 

there 
Her knitting- work 's lying, needles and 

ball. 
I repeat, " Have a care, else the stitches 

will fall." 

For the years have come and the years 

have fled, 
And grandmother, dearest of friends, is 

dead ; 



96 HANDLE WITH CARE 

Her work laid by, as a task well done, 
A life well lived, and a race well run. 

And I think, as I look, what a lesson is 

taught, 
What a beautiful sermon these needles 

have wrought, 
For there it lies finished — all but the 

toe — 
A soft little stocking for dimple-cheeked 

Joe, 

While finished and smoothly laid away, 
Its little mate in the basket lay. 
But who shall finish the toeless one, 
That grandmother's fingers so deftly 
begun ? 

Who can knit into each stitch and each 

row 
Grandmother's love for dimple-cheeked 

Joe? 
Who so patiently — if stitches shall 

fall — 
As grandmother gather them up, one 

and all ? 



HANDLE WITH CARE 97 

Who draw up the stitches so close and so 

warm, 
To keep Joe's little soft toes from the 

storm, 
As grandmother would ? — alas, not one 
Can finish the work her love had begun. 



98 LETTHEMPASS 



LET THEM PASS 

Across the sky at even float 
Myriad fairies in a boat, 
Shadows made of amethyst, 
Filmy wove and wonder-whist, 
Whither bound I cannot know, 
All so dreamy still they go, 
Like a breath of mignonette. 
Scarce the bluebells move or fret, 
Like the balm of apple bloom 
Drifting through the stilly gloom. 

This I know, at eventide 
Through the silence fairies ride, 
Speeding softly here and there. 
And with most bewitching air 
Knocking at the inner gate 
Of the dreamy boy's estate. 
Pointing to the rainbow's gold 
And to Spanish castles bold, — 
Pointing through the silence down 
To the genii wonder town. 



LETTHEMPASS 99 

I would warn you, dreamy one ! 
Bold the fairies' gauntlet run ! 
Let the dreamships sail away 
Through the twilight of the day, 
Heed you not their voices sweet, 
Or the tripping of their feet ; 
Like a breath of mignonette, 
Let them pass without regret, 
Like the balm of apple bloom 
Fade and disappear in gloom. 



BREAKING OUT THE ROAD 



BREAKING OUT THE ROAD 

When the shadows longer grow, 
Creeping eastward thin and slow, 
And the night comes deep and still, 
Black and scowling, up the hill, 
Covering with a shadow gown 
Forest gray and sleeping town, 
Wrapping in a cloak of dun 
Moon and stars and earth and sun ; 
When the snow in feathery flakes 
Sings again through brush and brakes, 
Sifts and swirls in hidden nook. 
Building castles by the brook, 
Where the flakes like dancing sprites 
Whirl about in giddy flights — 
Then we know the day will bring 
Work to do 
Breaking out the old hill-road. 

When throughout the silent night 
Swirls the blinding storm of white, 



BREAKING OUT THE ROAD loi 

And the snow against the pane 

Dashes, then falls back again 

Unmelting, adding to the hill 

That piles upon the window sill, 

Till morning comes with hoary face, 

Changing each familiar place ; 

Where the spring was, now looks up 

A fairies' crystal drinking-cup ; 

The old woodpile lies white and still, 

Curbed and curving like a hill ; 

And where the highway through the 

woods 
Drifted winds, with tasseled hoods 
The trees bend down, and so we know 
There '11 be fun 
Breaking out the old hill-road. 



SPRING, GENTLE SPRING 



SPRING, GENTLE SPRING 

In the spring our nimble fancies 

Lightly turn to warmer days, 
Skies of blue, and moonlight rambles, 

Dreamy noons, and shady ways ; 
Till the mercury, still climbing. 

One day reaches that dear spot 
Where your best friend stops and asks 
you, 

" Say, old fellow, ain't this hot ! " 

Nimble still, our wayward fancy 

Tacks and reefs and swiftly turns 
To the land of icy valleys 

And the home of frozen ferns ; 
Still the mercury keeps climbing 

Higher than Jack's beanstalk grew, 
And you faint when some one mur- 
murs, 

" Is this hot enough for you ? " 



SPRING, GENTLE SPRING 103 

" Hot enough ? Ye gods and fishes, 

Would some wild west zephyr blow 
From the land of Kansas blizzards, 

Where the little snow seeds grow ! " 
Thus you murmur till next morning. 

When a chill east wind sweeps by. 
And you take a plain lung fever, 

And, kicking still, lie down to die. 



104 IN THE SCENERY OF DREAMS 



IN THE SCENERY OF DREAMS 

In the scenery of dreams there are plays, 
Where the softest golds and grays 
Are displayed ; 
And arrayed, 
By their sides are deepest jet, 

Reds of brightest hues, and so 
Is life's panorama set 
For weal or woe. 



WHEN THE RACE IS THROUGH 105 



WHEN THE RACE IS THROUGH 

In the blue uneven distance, 

Where life's white road dusty lies, 
Melting in the dreamy silence, 

Withered out beneath the skies, 
Withered out and disappearing 

Somewhere in that after land. 
Where the future greets the present, 

And they journey hand in hand, 

It will be our bidden fortune 

To lay down our load and rest, 
To forget the road was weary. 

And remember that the best 
Of this life comes with the ending. 

Knowing, when the race is through, 
That, with all our sad misdoings. 

We have done the best we knew. 



io6 LOVE'S EYES 



LOVE'S EYES 

The moon, a golden crescent, floats 

In yonder depths of blue. 
And Time with fitful shuttles weaves 

A veil of sombre hue 
About the day ; the night, grown deep, 
Bids hallowed thoughts o'er mortals creep. 

A million eyes from yonder dome 
Look through the night at me ; 

One heart looks out through misty space, 
And wonders what will be. 

One heart looks out and sings of love ; 

A million planets shine above. 

And if those million eyes should fade, 

To never twinkle more. 
Mankind might still his onward course 

Continue as before ; 
But if the eye of love grow dim. 
Earth were a waste, unpeopled, grim. 



THE USES OF ADVERSITY 107 



THE USES OF ADVERSITY 

Some souls are born to bleed, they say, 

Nor wonder why it 's so ; 
Some hearts are born to suffer pain. 
Pierced deep with thorns, to know the 

gain 
That others cannot know who reign 

Where pleasures flow. 



io8 EARTH MUSIC 



EARTH MUSIC 

There 's a music dwells deep in the heart 
of the world, 
And some seek with pleasure and find 

it; 

And some dwell alone with the woe of a 
day, 
Nor hear of the music nor mind it. 



A NAME 109 



A NAME 

'Tis oh, to make a name, no matter 

when. 
Now for a day, forever after then ! 
My love, my hate, and my ambitions 

first ; 
Watch how the bubble grows — behold it 

burst ! 



IN AUTUMN TIME 



IN AUTUMN TIME 

In autumn time when leaves are red, 
When songsters to the south have fled, 
When through the valley far and near 
The plover's call salutes the ear 
And all the summer world is dead, 

I love to roam where fancies led 
Me ere the woods were turned to red. 
And ere the fields grew lone and sere 
In autumn time. 

So when the days of youth are sped, 
From what the years may hold, ahead, 
I turn me back and tune the ear 
To catch the music sweetly clear 
Borne from the past ere fancy fled 
In autumn time. 



CONSCIENCE 



CONSCIENCE 

A SONG came out of the sky, 

Sung by the night wind there, — 
" Do right, my boy, 
And the grace of joy 
Will help you banish care." 

The song grew into a heart, 
The heart of a tempted one. 

And he said " Maybe, — 
But who could see 
If the ill were deftly done ? " 

And a voice came from within, 
Like a bloom that waited long, 
" I 've a conscience clear. 
And it can hear. 
And winnow the right from wrong.' 



MEMORIES 



MEMORIES 

Down the aisles of Time, ghost-haunted, 
Soft echoes come up out of Eld, — 

Dreams that old Sorrow has flaunted, 
And memories Pleasure has held. 



THE MOUNTAIN SPRING 113 



THE MOUNTAIN SPRING 

Like some huge genii drinking-cup 
Crystal brimmed, the spring looks up ; 
Curbed, and curving out to where 
Eerie snowflakes fill the air. 



ti4 THE WINTER ROAD 



THE WINTER ROAD 

Where the highway through the woods 

Drifted winds, with tasseled hoods 

The trees bend down, hke monks who 

wait. 
Praying at the cloister gate. 



IN THE YOUNG WINTER 115 



IN THE YOUNG WINTER 

In the young winter : — 

Blossom time in spring ; 

In the young winter : — 

Summer 's truly king ; 

In the young winter, 

Ah, but that is joy — 

Skates, a frozen pond, and a boy. 



ii6 EXPECTATION 



EXPECTATION 

On the sweet mid-morrow 

We shall have such joy ! 
When ? On the sweet mid-morrow, 

O stupid boy. 



YOUTH'S HOLIDAY 117 



YOUTH'S HOLIDAY 

Keeping company with the flowers, 
Idling with June's blossom hours 

In the sun ; 
Sleepy when the morning flushes, 
Dreamy when the twilight blushes. 
Where the meadow-lark swift brushes 
Dew from whispering reeds and rushes ; 

Days that run 
Softly, like the dreams that pass 
Dim before the magic glass 

Of youth's holiday. 



AN APRIL DAY 



AN APRIL DAY 

A BANK of cloud in the upper blue, 

A gossamer mist below, 
While all day long the rain, rain, rain 
Plashes and beats the window pane, 

Eating the rags of snow. 

The robin sits in the mountain ash 
And warbles a mournful strain, 
While the brooklet runs in a torrent down 
Across the meadow and through the town, 
And laughs at the April rain. 



BUT A PART 119 



BUT A PART 

If out from the depths of my heart 

I could form but one Une 
That would live to tell, but in part, 
What hopes have been mine, 
I could most gladly close my eyes 
When the sunlight dies, 
And sleep — could I tell but a part. 



ALL IS GOOD 



ALL IS GOOD 

I 
It is pleasant to lie by an orchard wall, 
Watching the branches rise and fall ; 
It is pleasant to hear through the perfume 

float 
The sad sweet sound of the phoebe's 

note ; 
Watch slantwise slip through the spring's 

sweet breath 
Petals, showing the life in death. 



It is good to be here ; it is good to know 
The way men come and the way men go ; 
The rose's bloom o'er a grave may teach 
That a soul, like its scent, is beyond our 

reach. 
But the soul is there and the perfumed 

breath 
Of the rose may teach there is good in 

death. 



A WINTER TWILIGHT 



A WINTER TWILIGHT 

The sun bows low beyond the western 
wood, 
Where lonely buntings their plaintive 
chirpings hush ; 
The purpling sky beholds earth's beauties 
good; 
God bids the darkness come to hide 
the blush, 

And over fields of white 
Sails high the moon, fair goddess of the 
skies, 

And this is night. 



THE CHIDE 



THE CHIDE 

Light through the shutters flashing 

Like dashes of molten gold, 
Writing a chide to the whirling snow, 
The storm and cold. 

Writing a chide for the outcast there, 
Crouched where the gold bars lay, 
Freezing the life of the beggar girl, 
As false gold may. 

Frozen, starved, in the reach of wealth, 

And golden bars of light. 
That write a chide in the hand of God 
On earth's black night. 



LINES 123 



LINES 



When the lamp is broken 

The flame goes out into night ; 
When the words are spoken 

The Ups will lose their delight ; 
When the harp lies shattered 

The soul of the player is fled ; 
When the dreams are scattered 

The hope of the dreamer is dead. 

II 
When hearts have commingled 

The pleasure of love is their own ; 
When fond hearts are singled 

One enters the tempest alone. 
O Life, why thus have you chosen ? 

Is love the great goal ? 
Some hearts forever are frozen ; 

Then life is the soul. 



124 OH, THE OBSCURITY 



OH, THE OBSCURITY 

Father, comfort me 
Now in my sorrow. 

As I look up to thee, 

Out through the sometime, - 
The silent to-morrow, — 

In the depths of eternity 
Falters the vision, 

Lost in obscurity. 

Father, I cry to thee. 
Comfort me, cherish me. 
Lend me the strength to be 

Strong in decision. 
Lend me the ken to be 
Near to thee, true to thee, 

Clearer of vision. 



A WISH 125 



A WISH 

Just to lie in the woods in June 

With a Hfe that 's bubbUng free, 

With a will that 's strong, a heart in tune 
With the hope that used to be. 



126 THE NATURE — CHANGE 



THE NATURE — CHANGE 

Ay, friends, make merry, for the day is 
nearly sped, 
And with the midnight tolHng of the 
bell 
Some will whisper softly as they gather, 
"He is dead." 
Ay, friends, make merry, it is well. 

Dead, friends, dead ? 

It is nothing to be dead. 

Only the ceasing to beat of a human heart, 

Only the ceasing to breathe. 

Only the natural part 

For a man to play. 

Why, then, make moan ? 

Am I alone in death — 

Am I alone ? 

Nay, friends, make merry and gather 

round the door. 
Bring in the flagon, pour out the wine 

and say, 



THE NATURE — CHANGE 127 

*' We lose another, he goes out to-day ! 
Let 's rouse the echo with old songs 

once more." 
Morning and night gather old friends, 

and sing 
Our dear old songs, and let the rafters 

ring. 
Gather once more, your oldtime stories 

tell, 
Turn down my cup and whisper, " It is 

well." 



128 ITISBETTER 



IT IS BETTER 

It is better to love and be loved, 

And go out in the springtime of life, 
Than to know but the cold hearts of men 
And sorrow of strife. 

It is better to love and be loved. 

And pass with the sunshine on 
In the early spring, than to live 
Till love is gone. 

It is better to die and be loved 

Than to live for a thousand years, 
And know but the cold world's shock 
And biting tears. 



THE GOAL 129 



THE GOAL 

Sweet the songs of the reaper 

When the harvest is gathered in ; 
Sweet the sound of rejoicing 

When the victory we win ; 
Sweet the dreams of the sleeper, 

Sweet the faith of the soul 
When it nears to the brimming river, 

God, and its infinite goal. 



130 



MOONLIGHT 



MOONLIGHT 

Iridescent in the west 

Surge of colors radiate, 
Interlacing, flexile-wise, 

Filmy, yet inseparate, 
Kissing now the sleeping tarn, 

Weaving in and out and so, 
Like a knot of tangled yarn, 

Fading in the afterglow ; 
Streaming out the shadow hair 

Quivers in a shaft of light 
Which the moon in passion throws 

At the demon of the night. 



THEHEART 131 



THE HEART 

Deep within the mind's recesses 
There are mirrors clear ; 

Laughing eyes and golden tresses 
Oft are pictured here. 

But as perfumes are the dearest 
For the bloom that 's gone, 

So the heart loves best its mirror 
When the years pass on. 



132 AGAMEBOARD 



A GAME BOARD 

What is this world but a game board ? 

What is this hfe but a die ? 
You cast, and luck is the number, 

Again, and hope is a lie ; 
If lucky, the world laughs with you. 

The universe trembles with song ; 
If ill turns up, you 've a bitter cup. 

And the span of each failure is long. 

So cast, there is naught in choosing ; 

Shake, as you 're bid to do ; 
There is fate in a lucky number, 

Who knows but it 's meant for you ? 
You 've a blind man's chance at winning, 

What more would you ask, you clown ? 
If luck goes wrong and the road looks 
long, 

You 've had your chance, step down ! 



HEART MUSIC 133 



HEART MUSIC 

There are hopes which are born to die, 
Like thoughts unexpressed ; 

There is music dwells in the soul 
To the harp unconfessed. 

There 's a love that eyes only know, 
Of which hearts have no token ; 

But there never is love in the heart 
The eyes leave unspoken. 



134 MY PRAYER 



MY PRAYER 

If I should die to-night, 

If the stilled pulse and pallid brow 

In the young morning 

Showed that I was dead, 
Would all be just the same as now 

With the first faint light ? 
Would there be no tears shed, 
Would there be no words said 

Of tender memory ? 

Whatever be, 

Be this my prayer : — 

When I go out 
Let it be lightly, 
Lightly, mother. 

Let it not be like the harsh awakening 
From some grim nightmare. 

But one by one let down 
The bars of my prison, 



MY PRAYER 135 

And let me go out gladly. 

Let the curtain as it falls 

At the ending of my play 
Drape round me lightly 
Like the gown of a sleeper 
And a dreamer of fair dreams. 



[36 DOASYOUMUST 



DO AS YOU MUST 

A SONG came drifting, floating 

Down through the space of night : 
** Do as you should, 
And not as you would, 
And the burdens soon grow light." 

And the stars whispered together 
Softly an answer-song : — 
" Do as you hear. 
In a conscience clear, 

That winnows the right from wrong.' 

And into a heart that suffered 

They sang with a voice of love : — 
*' I '11 do my best. 
And then leave the rest 

To the will of God above." 



ASPIRATIONS i3r 



ASPIRATIONS 

I KNOW not if the cadences of song, 
That swept my soul Uke some strange, 

living thing, 
Were on the breezes of the sea air borne 

along 
Half hid where broken cloud-wreaths 

petals fling. 
Or if the mocking-bird, assuming fay-like 

part, / 

Taught unheard music to the trembling 

heart. 

I know not whence it came, but out 

and in 
A strange desire and satisfaction played, — 
Satisfaction for what had never been, 
Through life's eternity crushed and de- 
layed ; 
It may be that, aspiring from the sod. 
One spark of ego met and knew its God. 



138 DON'T WORRY 



DON'T WORRY 

For what of it all — 
The fret and worry ? 
The love of man, or the tears of woman ? 
The kiss for kiss, or the word of passion ? 
The hate of hell, or the love of heaven ? 
The coming in, or the going out ? 
What of it all ? 
The tides go out, 
The nights speed on, the days come in, 
While the river sings in a monotone, 
" Whatever has been shall be again ! " 



DREAMING 139 



DREAMING 

Motherhood in fancy dreaming, 
By her side a happy lass ; — 

" Hi ho ! mother, what is seeming ? " 
■" Visions in a looking-glass ; 
Shadows of the wild moss-rose 
Pictured where the pool's repose 
Flashes back to maiden face 
Traces of a wondrous grace ; — 

That is seeming, lass, my lass, — 

That is seeming, lass." 

Pondering still the maiden, seeming 
Lost in thoughts ideal and new, — 
" Tell me, mother, what is dreaming ? 
Is it love, and is it true ? " 
" Dreaming is the maiden's way ; 
Dreams the life of poets gray, 
Dreaming is the love that flows 
Where the youth's soft fancy grows, 

That is dreaming, lass, my lass, — 

That is dreaming, lass." 



140 FALLING SNOW 



FALLING SNOW 

Feathery tassels on the pine 
Bring again this song of mine, 
June may come and June may go, 
But naught can match the falling snow. 



MORNING HI 



MORNING 

A THREAD of gold 

In the dun, — 
A crimson flood, 

Then the sun, 
A ball of fire that sips 
Sweet dew from willing lips 
Of flower, and leaf, and fern 

By hill and burn. 



142 TO-MORROW 



TO-MORROW 

To-morrow's sunshine 

Will be so bright ; 
To-morrow's burdens 

Will be so light ; 
To-morrow's handclasps 

Will not be missed, 
For to-morrow we journey 
Beyond the mist, 
Beyond the trouble of life's strange way. 
Into the warmth of a clearer day ; 
For God hath said the haven's rest 
Is ours to-morrow — 

And He knows best. 



OFTHEFUTURE 143 



OF THE FUTURE 

I TRIED to plan for the future 
When the thought came back ; 

The thought of the wondrous plan 
Came over the homeward track 

Like a reeling man. 

I tried to dream of the future 
When the curse loomed up ; 

The curse loomed up, and I said, 
As I looked at his hemlock cup, 

"There are many dead." 

I tried to dream of the future 
While the wick flame flickered low, 

But the demon came and spake, 
" Come, lad, it is time to go 

Ere the tulips wake." 



144 WHEN FOR ME 



WHEN FOR ME 

When for me the last red sun has set, 
And yonder western hills stand glorified, 
I pray you, father, take my hand, and let 
Us journey closer, until open wide — 
The black cloud separates. 

Then fare you well, 
And though I silent lie. 
Let voices of your memory answering tell 
You that my love can never die. 



N AN OLD BARN 145 



IN AN OLD BARN 

Spider laces, webs of gray, 
Draping with long festoon rare 
Rafters brown and huge and bare 
Where the gypsy sunbeams play ; 
By what mystery so airy, 
By what will of sprite or fairy, 
By what magic grace or power, 
Do you swing there, Elfin bower ? 



146 THE SONG 



THE SONG 

Floating down under the silent stars, 
A song came out of the sky ; 

It was only this : — 

" For a blow a kiss ; 
And you '11 laugh in the by and by." 

The song grew into a childish heart, 
And the heart grew day by day, 

Till a love came there 

Which blighted care, 
And drove distrust away. 



GOD'S GRACE 147 



GOD'S GRACE 

A WEE belated flower by the wayside 
growing, 

A snow-drop kissing its saddened up- 
turned face, 

The white frost over the fields his 
crystals throwing, 

Then the pure snow, token of God's grace. 



148 WORDS THAT LIVE 



WORDS THAT LIVE 

Speak not the word that temper speeds 

To your quick Hps, 
The thrust is but the power that breeds 

The gall one sips. 

Look in the heart of men, you '11 find 

Such words live long, 
So when you speak let only thoughts 
most kind 

Conduct your song. 



WHO? 149 



WHO? 

Who shall pick up the soul of a man 

When it's lost? 
Who by duty of love lift the one 
Tempest-tossed 
Up, body and soul from the mire and the 

sod, 
And make the twain one by the measure 
of God. 



[50 BY THE LAKE 



BY THE LAKE 

Softly sleeping, dreamy- whist, 
By the weeping willow kissed ; 
Not a ripple, not a sound 
In the blue of heaven gowned ; 
Lake and sky and melody 
Mingling enamoredly. 

Floating languorous a cloud 
Flecks the hyaline blue of lake ; 
Trailing fiuctuous the way 
On the desert moves the snake ; 
Floating fiuctuous and slow 
On the palpitating air 
As the dreams of spirits go 
In their dream-ships to and fro 
Shadow filmy here and there. 



TO HER BEAUTIFUL DEAD 151 



TO HER BEAUTIFUL DEAD 

There are souls in which tremble, 

And long to be free, 
Songs that words would dissemble 

If men were to see. 

Thoughts the lips leave unspoken, 
For no words would shed 

The truth of Love's token 
For her beautiful dead. 



152 HE IS DEAD 



HE IS DEAD 

Days came and onward sped, 
Till they whispered, " He is dead," 

And the leaves 
Browner grew, then passed away. 
And the breeze through autumn's day 

Sighs and grieves. 



A DAY 153 



A DAY 



The sun came up from the sea, 

The blue came into the sky, 
A song came out of a sparrow's breast 
As she passed by. 



A breeze came over the moor, 

A chill came into the air, 
A heart was broke by a thoughtless 
word. 
But the noon was fair. 

Ill 

The moon was a silver bow. 
The purple faded to gray. 
The tide ebbed over the moaning bar 
With the dying day. 



154 A DAY 

IV 

And the night came down apace, — 

Came jet-black with a will, — 
And there were tears in a woman's eyes, 
And a grave on the hill. 



TRUTH 155 



TRUTH 



One taper lights a thousand fires 

To perpetuate its glory, 
And so one soul may humbly teach 

A world its perfect story. 



156 SUNSET 



SUNSET 

Over the land of the afternoon 
The dreamy twiHght shps 

Its mantle of half forgetfulness, 
When deep in the west low dips 

The sun, girt round by fold on fold 

Of purple, amethyst, and gold. 



THE DAY 157 



THE DAY 

The morning broke, a morning bright 
and fair, — 
Before I rose, I planned two deeds of 
good 
Which I would do that day with humble 
care, 
Do from my heart, just as a true man 
should. 

The twilight came, the lengthened shad- 
ows fell ; 
I drew a chair before the back-log's 
blaze. 
And brought the record forth to let it tell 
My soul its failings and my life its 
ways. 

The page was tarnished with a temper 
thrust, 
Whereby a friend was wounded deep 
and sore ; 



158 THE DAY 

The deeds I planned to do were hid in 
rust ; 
The day had passed like wasted days 
before. 

And had the day been longer by a year, 
The good deeds planned had yet re- 
mained undone ; 
But had a minute spanned the day, I fear 
The temper thrust had stung the 
friendly one. 



THE DUTY OF DAYS 



t59 



THE DUTY OF DAYS 

I SAW the sun this morning 
Rise o'er yon eastern wood, 

And I heard a song in the air, 
And the song was good. 

Crystals clung to the branches 
Of grasses, shrubs, and trees. 

As though the heavens wept last night 
With the sighing breeze. 

For the dear Old Year departed 
In the shadows as he came. 

And the New Year stands before us, 
New only in name. 

Only in name, for the future 

Holds what the past has wrought, 

And we must bow to the will of God, 
If we will or not. 



i6o THE DUTY OF DAYS 

Bow with a will grown sober, 
Fight with a hope that 's glad ; 

And drink as the New Year bids us 
Of the gay and sad. 

For to one Time bore new blossoms, 
Love came where it had not been, 

Came and knocked at the inner court, 
And was beckoned in. 

And one, with the New Year's coming, 

Stands at the open door, 
And grieves at thought of the dear dead 
one 

She will see no more. 

But the Old Year did its duty, 
And now the New Year takes 

The duty of days in its palm, and works 
For our dear sakes. 



AVISIONOFHOPE i6i 



A VISION OF HOPE 

'T WAS in the early morning, when the 

night was old ; 
When day first broke upon the hill and 

wold, 
Sending a golden shimmer through the 

sky. 
When through the trees that seemed to 

bow and sigh — 
As slowly, through each dark green 

grove, 
A golden web of light the morning wove. 
Throwing fantastic shapes upon the 

ground — 
When from each tree and bush there 

came a sound 
Of music from the waking birds 
Mingling with the lowing of arousing 

herds, 
I had a vision. 



l62 A VISION OF HOPE 

In the far away, 
I heard strange music ushering in the 

day; 
I saw a maiden with long golden hair, 
Streaming and glinting on the morning 

air, 
Coming from the eastern mountain 

slope, 
And bearing in her hand sweet flowers 

of hope 
Which she had plucked, that morn, from 

where they grew, 
All gayly sparkling with the silver dew, 
Fresh from the land of Sweetest Rest. 
Ever and anon upon her way in quest 
Of weary mortals, she did drop below 
A flower of hope ; and everywhere a 

golden glow 
Lit up each hill and vale, each wood and 

glen. 
Circled around, wove in and out, and then 
It overspread a hamlet or a cot 
To brighten up some herdsman's dreary 

lot. 
And as the maiden with the golden hair 



AVISIONOFHOPE 163 

Swept swiftly onward through the silent 

air, 
Anon, the sweetest notes came from 

above. 
Like the soft cooing of the turtle-dove. 
Or like the music of some heavenly choir, 
Or like the notes of an enchanting lyre, 
The soothing notes swept swiftly on ; 
Hope lit each cottage yard, each palace 

lawn ; 
And lo ! she paused above my head with 

simple grace. 
And love was written on her radiant 

face. 
Then she passed onward in her westward 

flight, 
And slowly in the east the shades of night 
Crept through each wood and up each 

silent vale. 
While o'er each winding stream a misty 

veil — 
Despair — crept softly into sight, 
And helped to hide the slowly dimming 

Hght ; 



i64 AVISIONOFHOPE 

But that enchanting harp still sweetly 

played, 
And gently to my ear the soft notes 

strayed. 

The vision passed, and took the beauteous 

maid. 
And I awoke bereft, and humbly prayed : 
** Oh, fairest dream of hope — sweet 

maid, I pray. 
Return and soothe me with each coming 

day, 
Return, and with my earliest waking hour 
Acquaint me with thy presence and thy 

power ; 
Oh, bind me closer with thy golden hair. 
And with thy sweetness drive away dull 

care." 



THENEWYEARIN 165 



THE NEW YEAR IN 

So the dear Old Year has vanished ! 

Last night I saw him there, 
With the moonUght in his fingers, 

And the shadows in his hair ; 

And he stood as one forsaken 

By the friendships he had known ; 

There were tears upon his eyehds, 
And his voice was sad of tone. 

For the dear Old Year was weary, 
But the dear Old Year was true, 

By the will of the Master doing 
The work he was bid to do. 

I sighed as I saw him hobbling 

Over the western slope, 
For though he was slow in granting. 

He was always free with hope. 



i66 THENEWYEARIN 

But the New Year came this morning, 

I saw him standing there, 
With the sunhght in his fingers, 

And laurel in his hair. 

And the snow on the eastern hillside 
Was gleaming and shining bright. 

And I said, " Huzza for the glad New 
Year," 
And girdled my courage tight. 

So let the dead past slumber, 
Huzza for the king that 's new, 

Facing the untrod future, 
And bidding the past adieu. 



ANAUTUMNSONG 167 



AN AUTUMN SONG 

When a chill creeps over the meadow, 
and the gold comes into the west, 

When the robin sits in the mountain ash, 
trimming her mottled breast. 

When the squirrel chatters unceasing, 
high on a maple bough, 

And the farmer, turning the furrows back, 
follows the cruel plough, 

I wander over the meadow, wistfully over 
the mead, 

By the brim of the sleeping river, wher- 
ever my fancies lead. 

Red, and yellow, and purple, crimson, rus- 
set, and brown. 

Dancing hither and thither, the leaves 
come sliding down. 

Piling the woodland hollows, and dancing 
over the down. 



i68 ANAUTUMNSONG 

When the brown creeps into the grasses, 
and the gold spreads over the corn, 

When the yellow and purple of forests 
cast back the reflection of morn, 

When down from the point-capped pine- 
tree comes the sad wail of the year, 

And the leaves of russet slide downward, 
making a rustic bier 

Where autumn may come unchidden, and 
rest with a work well done, 

Under the snows of winter, and under the 
winter sun, 

I love to follow some zigzag, grass-covered 
lonely way, 

Forgetting the actions of ages, remember- 
ing only the day. 

Remembering only October, forgetting 
the beauties of May. 



IN SEPTEMBER 169 



IN SEPTEMBER 

September reigns, the huntsman calls 

And whistles to his dog ; 
Along the winding stream the duck 

Splashes beyond the fog ; 
The painted leaves with crisped wing 

Come fluttering to the ground, 
And of the mossy stone-heap make 

A red and yellow mound. 

The plover pipes, the cricket chirps, 

Birds sing on every wall ; 
The salmon to the ocean bound 

Slips past the waterfall ; 
The sheep on yonder hillside graze. 

And all the world grows still. 
While dully from the valley comes 

The plash of the old mill. 

The sumac burns upon the hill. 
Red in an autumn haze ; 



I70 IN SEPTExMBER 

And round yon western mountains 

A purple halo plays ; 
Brightly the blood-red poppies gleam 

Over in yonder grain ; 
And the aging year moves ever on 

In summer's funeral train. 



DECEMBER 



DECEMBER 

Viewing this olive leaf, 
Spilling its beauty brief, 

Losing its glory, 
Here in the land of snow, 
Where the grim northers blow, 

Wilful and hoary. 

Far does the vision stray, 
Over the misty way, 

Through the December ; 
Into the land of flowers, 
Through the delightful hours 

Memories remember. 



172 THE GRAY GULL 



THE GRAY GULL 

Over the foam of the breakers, flinging 

High their spray on the barren shore, 
The gray-white gull is swinging, winging^ 

Calling and calling o'er and o'er ; 
Calling his mate from the stormy water, 

Calling her up to drift with him 
Over and on, full tempest driven, 

Out of the clouds of twilight grim. 

How he whirls in the lower heavens. 

Dives and rises and dives and cries, 
Floats and turns and rolls half over. 

And rises again, and rising flies 
Straight for the land that breaker-riven 

Echoes harshly along the tide, — 
Then turns and swerves and diving down- 
ward 

Settles near to his mistress' side. 

Drifts and speaks with softer murmur, 
Floats a moment in her sweet care, 



THEGRAYGULL 173 

Then with a cry and pinions curving 
Rises proud to the upper air. 

Glory is great, but love is greater, 
Greater as God has made it so ; 

And he dives again and with mad en- 
deavor 
Settles close to her breast of snow. 



174 A DAY — ARIZONIAN 



A DAY — ARIZONIAN 

Over the west a golden glory, 

Sign of the setting sun, 
Opal and blue and a purple haze, 

Eve — and the day is done. 

Deep in the cloud-drift, star-eyes twinkle, 
A soft white glory about the moon ; 

Shadows and silence, and sleep and 
dreams — 
So passes night's high noon. 

Dreams, and into the night's deep azure 
Out of the east a shimmer of light — 

The sun, a gleaming shaft of gold. 
That pierces the coward night. 

Sun that burns over hill and mesa ; 

Mountains fading to dusky gray ; 
Bees that hum where the cactus blooms ; 

Dreams — and the noon of day. 



A MORNING-RISE 175 



A MORNING-RISE 

Under the fringe of woodland shading, 

Tilting out a wavering line, 
Over the lake in the unseen fading, 

Tremble the shadowy stubs of pine. 

Flashing across the bay of shadow, 
A crimson sun-path wavers down. 

Where the ripples dance and toss and 
tumble, 
Opal and pearl and golden brown. 

Tiny waves that leap and sparkle. 
Catching the gold of the rising sun, 

Tossing it back to a cheerful measure, 
Losing it deep in a cave of dun. 

Out of the meshes of the sun-path. 
Tipsy, woven in changing way. 

The sudden leap of a golden beauty, — 
King of the mountain lake, at play. 



176 A MORNING-RISE 

Only a flash, and the eddying circle 
' Weaves away like a silver snake, 
Fading, lost in the perfect silence, 
Drowned in the mirror of the lake. 



TIME OF WANING AUTUMN 177 



IN THE TIME OF WANING AUTUMN 

In the time of waning autumn, ere the 

first white snow sifts down 
Over the hill and valley, and in the 

country and town. 
To show to the earth the fitting of its 

new-made slumber gown, 
I love to wander at evening, out mid the 

russet leaves. 
And hear their rustle and chatter, while 

down in the branches grieves 
The wind of the falling evening, that 

coming, a destiny weaves. 

Ay, I love, I say, ere the winter, in the 

latermost part of the fall 
To wander alone, and to listen, while out 

of the past I recall 
A voice with its tender emotion, a love 

with its rise and fall, 
A love, more than love while it lasted, a 

love that was love when it died, 



178 TIME OF WANING AUTUMN 

For that too was the love of the Uvmg, 
and loving the sleeping, it sighed, 

And turned to the past for requital, and 
hoping was never denied. 

Ay, I love, I say, to wander, drinking 

deep in the depths of the past. 
The days of a youth's bright dawning, 

which happy, journeyed so fast. 
The preparing to live was awakened, to 

find the pleasures had passed. 
To find how the frosts of autumn had 

blighted the blossoms of spring, 
How the flowers of summer were wilted, 

how the thrush had forgotten to 

sing. 
How white were the distant mountains, 

how winter was ruling as king. 



NOR YET FORGOT 179 



NOR YET FORGOT 

I KNOW not if the birds bright plumage 
wore, 
Or rusty brown and ragged was the 
wing; 
I know not if the grasses of the morn 
Were deep with bloom, or brown and 
withering ; 
I know not if fair bloom swung pink and 
white 
Or if ripe fruit above was tempting red ; 
I know but this : you were in sight. 
And far away my truant fancies led. 

I know not if the moon swung in the sky, 
And spread soft radiance o'er a summer 
world. 
Or if soft clouds were drifting idly by, 
Or heavy storm-clouds o'er the stars 
were furled ; 



i8o NORYETFORGOT 

I know not if the world seemed young or 
old, 
I know not if mankind seemed weak or 
wise ; 
I only know our story was first told, 
And loving eyes looked love to other 
eyes. 

I know not how the days passed on their 
way. 
If swift or slow, or what they brought 
of joy. 
Or what of sorrow, when came night or 
day, 
Or if all one was passed without 
alloy. 
I only know the spring bloomed deeply 
fair. 
And know there seemed a halo round 
the sun ; 
I know fair bloom heaped high the altar 
there, 
On that fair day when you and I were 
one. 



NOR YET FORGOT i8i 

I know the days sped on with even flow, 
And happy years passed on with 
noiseless tread, 
Till I went once out where the grasses 
grow, 
A lonely mourner, following my dead. 
I only know the spring blooms as of old. 
And passes on ; while I my dreary lot 
Weave in and out, with thread of life 
grown cold, 
Awhile the shuttle creaks, *'Nor yet 
forgot." 



iSa THE MOWERS 



THE MOWERS 

Here are the mowers mowing, 
In the cool morning, 
FUcking the sparkUng dew 
In ruby drops to the sun. 
O mowers gay, 
What do the grasses say ? 
What song do they sing at the mowing ? 
What song do they sing to the scythe ? 
Rest — they sing as the keen blade 

passes ; 
And sleep — is the answer-song to the 

grasses ; 
It 's an endless song, O mowers blithe. 
The song of the grass and the answering 
scythe. 



THE WOODSMEN 183 



THE WOODSMEN 

Here are the woodsmen, 
Here in the great forest, 
The great uncut forest of tasseled pine 

and spruce ; 
Here where the snow Hes deep over 

ridges, 
In valleys and hollows ; 
Here where the white snow is blown into 

billows. 
Changing billows tossed by the north 

wind ; 
Here are the woodsmen. 
With arms that are muscular, steady and 

swift. 
With hearts that are happy and blithe 

and gay, 
They cleave the air with their keen bright 

blades 
Till the mighty monarchs of centuries 

fall, 



i84 THE WOODSMEN 

Sway and fall with a mighty crash, 
A crash the mountain spirit hears 
And echoes back in muffled tone 
To the woodsmen chopping. 

Here in the Southland ; 

Here in the land of the palmetto ; 

The land of the orange, lemon, and fig 
tree ; 

The land of the Southern pine and red- 
wood ; 

The land of the cypress, oak, and hickory ; 

Here in the moss-draped swamps, slug- 
gish and fever stricken ; 
Here, too, are the woodsmen, 

Brawny and black and battle scarred, 

By broad lagoon and grim morass ; 

Where the brimming river broad and 
deep 

Cleaves the forest, a silver thread, 

A silver thread that weaves, and makes 

Like a snake in and out of the breaks. 
Here are the woodsmen, 

Strong and dreamy and steady and slow, 

High in the air the bright blade gleams, 



THE WOODSMEN 185 

Low, with a sweep and a sudden sting 
It sinks helve deep in the yielding wood, 
Dull like the cry of a thing grown dumb, 
Or the startled cry of one asleep, 
Asleep in the dreamy air of June, 
Lulled to sleep by the redbird's tune, 
Or the mockingbird which half awake 
Turns, then falls to sleep again. 



i86 THE PASSING OF THE YEAR 



THE PASSING OF THE YEAR 

The Year is growing late ; 
At the purple gate 
Of the western sky he stands, 
With the red sun in his hands, 
Like an old man looking back 
Down a rough and tortuous track 
To the time when life was new, 
And hope's fair blossoms grew 
On the plain Delusion. 

For a moment stands he there, 
With the shadows in his hair, 

Mingled with drifts of snow ; 
While with his palsied hand 
He stays day's burning brand. 

To gaze on the earth below. 

Out through the land of men. 
City and forest glen, 
Land of pride and crime. 
He gazes to that fair time 



THE PASSING OF THE YEAR 187 

When earth was newer ; 
Gazes back to the days 
When men were of simpler ways, 
When simpler pleasures grew, 
Nourished by sun and dew, 

And vain hopes were fewer. 

He speaks no word, but turns 
Where the western cloud-rim burns 

With a golden glory. 
And disappears from sight, 
Into the gloom of night. 

With his life's strange story. 



i88 ALONE IN THE TWILIGHT 



SITTING ALONE IN THE 
TWILIGHT 

I 

Sitting alone in the twilight of years 
and twilight of day, 

Watching the sun in the heavens sinking 
and hiding away, 

Watching the western hilltops, resplen- 
dent, glow with the gold 

Mist of the evening, as the air -shades, 
fold on fold, 

Thicken the dim growing landscape, plain, 
and valley, and hill. 

Till the very echo of silence, grown 
sweeter, paused and was still, — 

II 

Sitting alone in the twilight of years and 

twilight of day, 
I caught a sound like the music of a 

heavenly fountain at play ; 



ALONE IN THE TWILIGHT 189 

Raising my trembling fingers over my 
heart of hearts, 

I tried to sing, but the jar, as when sud- 
denly parts 

The strings of a mighty organ, shook my 
trembling frame. 

And the heart which throbbed wa.s 
broken, now only a heart in name. 

Ill 

The music passed in the distance, no 

longer the fountain played, 
And pressing my hand to my bosom, idly 

my fingers strayed, 
Unthinking, restless, and weary over my 

heart grown weak. 
And seemed with a sudden impulse for a 

time half forgotten to seek 
Down through the chambers of has-been 

and the halls of memory 
For the songs the dearest and sweetest 

in the days that used to be. 

IV 

Sitting alone in the twilight of age and 
twilight of day, 



190 ALONE IN THE TWILIGHT 

As the great sun hid in the shadows and 

the purple changed slowly to gray, 
The songs and the old-time music came 

up from the past to me, 
And I wandered once more with the days 

and the loves that used to be ; 
I wandered out through the twilight, 

grown deeper with heart's unrest, 
I drank from memory's fountain, and 

dreamed, and the days grew blest. 



THE DEAROLD SONGS 191 



THE BEST OF ALL THE DEAR 
OLD SONGS 

The songs they sing, the songs they sing, 
Those half - remembered memories of 
ours, — 

How the hours with merry rhythm ring 
With all the world of dreamland clothed 
with flowers' 

Sweet melody, the singing of the old- 
time scythe, 

Sent whispering through the grass by 
mowers blithe — 

But best of all the dear old songs to wear 

Are the songs that came from grandma's 
rocking-chair. 

I half remember of an old-time spring, 
How clear the robins' first call seemed to 

ring, 
And how the snow, in merry singing way. 



192 THEDEAROLDSONGS 

With feathery flakes made white the 

barren way, 
And how the brook went whispering 

through the dell, 
Singing words no tongue may ever tell ; — 
Those idle afternoons, those happy days, 
When I was but a boy with boyish 

ways — 
But looking back the best of all to wear 
Are the songs that came from grandma's 

rocking-chair. 

They are dear songs, the songs they sing, 
'Those half-remembered memories of 

ours ; 
They make the air with merry cadence 

ring. 
And crown the Time - King with a 

wreath of flowers. 
The dreams of winter and the dreams of 

spring 
Make music sweet of half the songs they 

sing ; 
From lazy days, those days of idle joys, 



THEDEAROLDSONGS 193 

When boyish-like I dreamed the dreams 

of boys — 
But best of all the dear old songs to wear 
Are the songs that came from grandma's 

rocking-chair. 



t94 WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS 



WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS 

There 's a music that dwells in the heart 
of the stream, 
And a mystery breathes in its flow, 
For I often look back, and sometimes a 
gleam 
Of the castles I 've built will flit to 
and fro. 

And fade 

Where the river flows. 

And I 've dreamed as I Ve watched it go 
flowing along 
That a beautiful fairyland lay 
Afar in the midst of the hills where its 
song 
Is born, and I 've dreamed that some 
day 

I 'd find 

Where the river flows. 



WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS 



195 



Now I 've traveled along by the river for 
years, 
Till I 've come close down to the sea, 
And I 've found there is laughter born 
often from tears. 
Like the songs that rise from the 
mists, maybe. 
That float 

Where the river flows. 

But there are tears, sometimes, ere the 
laughter dies ; 
There 's a woeful shake of the head ; 
For some pass down where the water 
sighs, 
And all pass out with the dead 
To the sea 

Where the river flows. 



196 OVER THE BROW OF THE HILL 



OVER THE BROW OF THE HILL 

Just over the brow of the hill it stood, 
The old red farmhouse of wood and 
brick ; 
The woodshed filled with winter's wood ; 
The barn close down by the meadow 
creek ; 
The maple-orchard, too, somehow 
Looked more inviting than it does now, 
When the wind comes scurrying down 
Ker-whiz ! 

Over the brow of the hill. 

The creek wa'n't pretty, to speak about. 
But the creek, a fishpole, and one 
small boy. 
At the end of the line a flopping trout, 
Was a combination to give one joy ; 
But joys were joys in those old days, 
When the boys were boys with boyish 
ways, 



OVER THE BROW OF THE HILL 197 

When the wind came scurrying down 
Ker-whiz ! 

Over the brow of the hill. 

But now, some way, when the year grows 
late. 
And the cornfield is stubbled and 
brown, 
When a creaking comes to the garden 
gate. 
And the heads of the goldenrod bend 
down. 
It don't seem just as it used to do, 
When the heart was quick and life was 

new. 
And the wind came scurrying down 
Ker-whiz ! 

Over the brow of the hill. 

But one I know, with a freckled face, 
A tattered hat and tousled hair ; 

A boy with an awkward sort of grace, 
Who never dreams of years or care ; 

Who never dreams of the world that lies 

Beyond the west where the daylight dies, 



198 OVER THE BROW OF THE HILL 

As the wind comes scurrying down 
Ker-whiz ! 

Over the brow of the hill. 

But the old gray hill and the house of 
red 
Are just as grand to this lad I know, 
As they were to me ere fancy fled, 

Back in the dreamy years ago ; 
But I wa'n't so particular then as now, 
And I did n't mind so much, somehow. 
When the wind came scurrying down 
Ker-whiz ! 

Over the brow of the hill. 



THE FIRST THANKSGIVING 199 



THE FIRST THANKSGIVING 

The sighing wind of the twilight dip- 
ping, 

Kissing the salt sea's lips of gall, 
Whirling out past crag and beacon, 

Bearing afar the gull's harsh call : — 
Pause you now in your mad endeavor, 
Pause and hearken once forever, 
Hearken close to the song that over. 
Over and under, and out and over. 
Through the blinding snow to the dew- 
gemmed clover 

Girdles the earth like a diadem. 

For they were a band of chosen people. 

Chosen by God to suffer wrong. 
To suffer and bear as the chosen suffer, 

Singing their silent martyr song ; 
Singing alone to the world that, ever 
Lost to the good of a man's endeavor. 
Hears but the wild, false nature beating, 
Echoing back, and the cry repeating. 



200 THE FIRST THANKSGIVING 

Mad with the kist of ages fleeting, 
Dying only to Hve again. 

Boldly braving the billowing ocean, 

Casting their bread on waters grim. 
With naught to cheer but the gray gull's 

calling, 
Seeking the way to follow him. 
They dreamed maybe an enchanting 

vision, 
Of isles of peace, and of fields elysian. 
But the curse came too, and the dreams 

were broken. 
Broken and crushed ere the thought was 

spoken, 
And the bounteous sea was the only 

token 
. To prove their God had been true to 

them. 

Before, but the trackless waste of waters ; 
Behind, but the curse and pride of 
men ; 
The storm-trod rocks were a welcome 
haven 



THE FIRST THANKSGIVING 201 

With the right of a freeman born 

again, 
And the days came, and the world rolled 

over. 
With the snow, and the rain, and the 

dew-tipped clover ; 
And they thanked their God for the 

bold endeavor 
That had led them up and had slackened 

never. 
And they blest their kind, and prayed 

that ever 
His love and a crust might satisfy. 



THE LAST THANKSGIVING 



THE LAST THANKSGIVING 

Once a year there comes a day 

In the chill November, 
When the year grows gray with rime, 

A day we all remember ; 
Though loud the northern winds may 
blow, 

Chill be the autumn weather. 
The laughter rings when 'round the 
board 

Meet kith and kin together. 

The laughter rings, the stories pass. 

The mirth grows high and higher ; 
The cider in the glasses brown 

Sparkles blush-songs at the fire. 
While grandpa, in the honor seat, 

Smiles shyly at another 
Across the board, the blessed one, 

The mother, the grandmother. 



THE LAST THANKSGIVING 203 

The feast is through, the laughter hushed, 

The heads are bowed together. 
And slowly speaks the gentle voice 

So soon to hush forever : — 
" Great God, we thank thee for thy love 

So freely to us given ; 
Have mercy on the saddened ones, 

By storm and tempest driven. 

" Though poor, we ask thee, for thy sake, 

Grant mercy to their sorrow. 
And pray thee hold them in thy palm, 

To-morrow and to-morrow. 
Watch the wanderer from the way. 

And guard his footsteps ever ; 
Lay not thy hand in wrath, O God, 

Upon his weak endeavor, 

" We thank thee for thy mercies great, 

And for thy patience golden ; 
Accept us as we are, O Lord, 

By his sweet promise holden. 
Together here we bow our heads, 

This one day in November ; 
United by thy will, O God, 

Thy blessings we remember." 



204 A MOOD 



A MOOD 

What would I do ? you ask me, 

Could I have my own strange way ? 
What would I do ? Well, truly. 

This, could I have my say, — 
This were the greatest of pleasures : 

To wander alone through the halls 
Of the years that have been, and to listen 

While echo on memory calls. 
With a voice of sorrowful sweetness 

Up through the past, and then 
I would bathe in the lucid quiet 

Of some half-forgotten glen. 

Not from the unknown future. 

Not from the present time. 
But out of the past I would beckon 

A year when never a rhyme 
Broke in on the limpid quiet, 

When never a deed of man 
Was greater than deeds of another, 

When everything quietly ran, — 



A MOOD 205 

Days drifted like the dripping of honey, 

Sweetening the dregs of the earth, 
Forgotten, unknown, and unnumbered ; 

When nothing died or had birth, 
Not even the flowers of the garden. 

Or the bird on the orchard bough ; 
When even the maid to her lover 

Forgot to whisper a vow. 

From the depths of that year I would 
gather 

A day the fairest and best, 
Unknown, forgotten, unnumbered ; 

Alike would we journey to rest, 
Lulled by the music of waters. 

Fanned by the sweet tipsy wind, 
Dream in the silence contented. 

With never a thought or a mind 
But forgetting the actions of ages, 

Forgetting the journey of time. 
Forgetting, unthought of, forgotten, 

Enchanted, list to the rhyme 
That flows from nowhere forever. 

Weaving around me the hours 
And the peace of an opal morning, 

Alone in a forest of flowers. 



2o6 OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST 



OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST 

Old friends are best friends, 

Don't care what you say. 
Stand by a fellow longest 

When his hair is gray. 
Stand by a fellow longest 

When there 's trouble near, 
An' 't seems as if the whole great world 

Was mostly out of gear. 

Old friends are best friends, 

And the old songs, too. 
Tremble longest on the lips 

When the heart is blue. 
Old songs and old ways, 

And homes we used to know, 
Lighten up the now time 

Like an afterglow. 

Old songs are cheer songs, 
And old loves are best ; 



OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST 207 

Like the wine that 's mellowed long 
Since it first was pressed, — 

Like the wine that 's mellowed long, 
Like the morning dew, 

Are the friends of that old time, 
When the world was new. 



2o8 THE SONG 



THE SONG 

River, as you flow along 

Through the fields of waving grass, 
Take with you this simple song, 

Sing it to the fields you pass. 

Sing the song as I to you, 
Sing it lying on your breast, 

Sing it to the ferry crew 
Lying by the shore at rest. 

Mingle with my words the tune 
That the willows love to play, 

Nodding on your shores in June, 
Dancing in the twilight gray. 

Sing the song my heart has wove, 
Idling here upon your breast, 

Simple song of bird and grove, 
River, God, and rest. 



THEOLDHOME 209 



THE OLD HOME 

Snow besieged and ruin captured 

Stands a house I know full well, 
Where in bygone years, enraptured 

By a misty, dreamy spell 
I have watched the seasons' changes. 

And the years ring out their doom ; 
Where I 've lived, and loved, and honored, 

Through life's sunshine and its gloom. 

There it was my baby cooing 

First a mother's fancy woke 
From the old dream of the wooing. 

To the new dream left unspoke : 
To the dream of hope and sorrow, 

To realities unthought. 
To a faith sublime, eternal. 

By a wordless prattle wrought. 

There it was as boyhood drifted 
Down the years to man's estate, 



210 THEOLDHOME 

With no palmist's vision gifted, 
First I learned to hope and wait. 

Gazing out across the hilltops, 

Through the purple haze of thought, 

I beheld a world of glory. 

In a dream of splendor wrought. 

So I journeyed once, and coming 

Where the city's strife is loud, 
Joined my tapping with the humming 

Of the great machine-drilled crowd ; 
Here I 've lingered, rested, dreaming 

Of that home in days of old, 
When all love and faith were measured 

By a higher worth than gold. 



THE CRICKET IN THE WALL 211 



THE CRICKET IN THE WALL 

When the year from dreamy summer 

Into crisp ripe autumn wakes, 
And the wild duck flying southward 

Haunts New England's crystal lakes ; 
When the wild grape's purple clusters 

Hang sun-kissed on the wall, — 
Then we hearken to the music 

Of the cricket's lucid call. 

When the poppies blush bright scarlet 

In the waving fields of wheat. 
And fond memories of summer 

Make the latter days complete ; 
When the partridge drums are rolling, 

And the plover bugles call, — 
Then we listen to the fiddle 

Of the cricket in the wall. 

When all the world is blushing 
At its own rich beauty rare, 



212 THE CRICKET IN THE WALL 

And the livery of forests 
Lends a softness to the air ; 

When a crisp is in the morning 
And ripe mellow is the noon, — 

Then we listen to the cadence 
Of the cricket's sleepy tune. 



TWILIGHT ON A MOUNTAIN LAKE 213 



TWILIGHT ON A MOUNTAIN LAKE 

Blue of the sky above us lifted 
Higher than thought can span, 

Amethyst cloud, rimmed with purple, 
Scarlet, silver, and tan. 

Twinkling rushes of golden sunlight 
Dancing into the dim unseen ; 

Fringe of green, and a bay of shadow, — 
Shadow kissing the tender green. 

Tinkling flash of unseen waters, 
Troubled shade, and foam afloat. 

Dimpling eddies join the laughter, 
Lending only a silent note. 

Tiny waves that leap and sparkle. 
Catching the gold of the setting sun. 

Tossing it back to a tipsy measure, 
Losing it deep in a cave of dun. 



214 TWILIGHT ON A MOUNTAlxN LAKE 

Out of the dimmest depths of silence 
The sudden splash of a speckled trout, 

A flash, a gleam, a shower of rubies, 
Golden eddies circling out. 

Out of the meshes of the sun-path, 
Tipsy, woven in changing way, 

A gleam of saffron, pink and yellow, 
A sparkling tinkle of falling spray. 

The blue above a fringe of emerald. 
One lone cloud-boat drifting by ; 

Love song of the mottled wood thrush 
Sinking into the depths of sky. 

Gathering gloom, like a dream forgotten. 
Sleep, with never a ray of light ; 

Lake and valley, and wood and mountain. 
Fading into the realms of night. 



AS OUR FATHERS DID OF YORE 215 



AS OUR FATHERS DID OF YORE 

When the frost is on the maple, 

And the grass is brown and sear, 
And a crisp benumbs the sunhght 

Of the evening of the year ; 
When the bins are full to bursting, 

When have passed the harvest days, 
Then we gather in communion 

To praise Heaven for its ways. 

Thus each year we come together. 

Sire and matron, youth and maid, 
Gathered round the harvest table 

With the harvest bounties laid ; 
Gathered to give forth thanksgiving 

As our fathers did of yore, 
When a band of starving pilgrims 

Gathered on a sterile shore. 

Gazing o'er the billowing ocean 
Towards their former fatherland, 



2i6 AS OUR FATHERS DID OF YORE 

Loud their hearts cried out thanksgiving 
For the bounties of God's hand ; 

Sore their troubles and privations, 
Strong their hearts in faith sublime, 

Who for a crust of bread were thankful 
On that first scant harvest time. 

So, when frost is on the valley, 

And a hush is on the hill ; 
When the carts go heavy laden 

To the clatter of the mill. 
Gather we with hearts of gladness, 

Thankful for the battles won 
In His name and by the token 

Of His promise through the Son. 



THE POET'S BIRTH 217 



THE POET'S BIRTH 

In the land of Poco Tiempo, 

In the land of By-and-By, 
Where the twilight blushes golden, 

And the purple shadows lie ; 
Where the streets are paved with silence, 

In the land of Pretty Soon, 
Once there came a troop of fairies, 

Bringing in a wondrous boon. 

Strange the land of Poco Tiempo, 

Dreamy all the people seem ; 
And the fairies entered boldly. 

Passing like a perfect dream 
Up the lonely street of Silence, 

Turning off down Tired Lane, 
Till they came to Future Alley, 

Turnpike to the land of Bane. 

Here they halted, where a cottage 
Stood within a garden spot, 



2i8 THE POET'S BIRTH 

Growing deep with wasted moments, 

Dead, deserted, and forgot. 
Here, within a silent chamber, 

On a cot there slept a child, 
Dreaming of fair Poco Tiempo, 

By its witchery beguiled. 

I'hrough the cottage romped the fairies, 

To the chamber came, and there 
Gathered round the dreaming sleeper. 

Sang the Dream-Fay's mystic air; 
Where the leader of the fairies, 

Standing in the moon-drift white, 
Touched the child with wand of magic — 

Blessed him in the silent night. 

So it was in Poco Tiempo, 

In the land of By-and-By, 
Where the twilight blushes golden. 

And the purple shadows lie ; 
Once a fairy legion journeyed. 

And they touched a sleeper there. 
And a poet blessed the sunshine, 

Sang to free the world from care. 



AN EVENING WALK 219 



AN EVENING WALK 

I HEAR the rustling garments of the wind 

Sweep past me in its flight, 
It moves the nodding flowers and bids 
them speak 
A varied language of the coming 
night. 
For it is summer time, in pensive mood 
I 've wandered to "this restful solitude. 

Midway up a mountain's quiet path 

With grasses twined together on its 
top. 
With vines and bushes growing on each 
side, 
I wander in a dreamy mood, or stop 
And look around me on the vale below, 
And on the far-off hills, and watch the 
sunset glow. 



220 AN EVENING WALK 

I see beneath the thatched roof of the 
path 
A rabbit spring and disappear from 
sight ; 

The partridge drumming in the neighbor- 
ing wood, 
And all around the voices of the 
night 

Make sweet harmony that delights the ear, 

And hallowed make this time of day and 
year. 

I watch the brook go wormling, murmur- 
ing on. 
Half hidden by the grasses on its 
brim ; 
Kissing now a lily's perfumed cheek, 

Now hidden by a thicket on its rim, 
Now darting 'neath a root, now gliding on. 
And singing in strange language a weird 
song. 

From just across the valley bending deep. 
Comes the soft clear tinkling of a 
bell, 



AN EVENING WALK 221 

Mingled with the looing of the kine, 

And the " coo ! coo ! " of the cowboy 
join to tell 
That night has come, and from afar 
I see the faintest trembling of the even- 
ing star. 

Slowly from yon shining village spire, 
Liquid notes are drifting through 

the air ; 
Calling to the honest rural folk 

To meet and worship in the house of 

prayer. 
But mists arising from the murmuring 

stream. 
Close round me like the meshes of a 

Tempean dream. 



OLD SONGS AND YEARS 



OLD SONGS AND YEARS 

I 
The old man mused, 
With head bowed low, 
Thinking of the long ago. 

II 
As I look back along life's cloudy way, 
O'er the good and evil of a man's short 
day. 

The things I best remember are somehow 
The ones I most dislike to ponder now ; 

Some little word that I in anger said 
To that dear friend, who now long since 
is dead ; 

Some little act regretted soon as done. 
Intended maybe — like a joke — in fun ; 



OLD SONGS AND YEARS 223 

But which, alas ! I learned a bit too late, 
Has changed a valued friendship into 
hate! 

The sunshine never has seemed just the 

same ; 
The wild-wood blossoms never quite so 

tame ; 

The brook has never sung so sweet a 

song; 
The hold on life is never quite so strong ; 

The robin's call has not so clear a ring ; 
The swallow never has so swift a wing ; 

The snows of winter are never quite so 

white ; 
The moon's soft glory never quite so 

bright 

As in those times, full fifty years ago, 
When days were all good days, and life 
was so. 



224 OLD SONGS AND YEARS 

But there are memories which somehow 

steal 
Into our lives, and make us old folks feel, 

When looking back along life's busy road, 
That we have shouldered but an average 
load. 

Our fancies wing from those lost days to 

these. 
And bring the old-time green into the 

trees -, 

The old-time songs, the songs I used to 

know, 
And used to sing in misty long ago. 

Ill 

Aye, for the old songs, 
Those songs were best ; 

Aye, for the old days, 
Those days were blest ; 

Those were the prime years, 
Years of my youth ; 



OLD SONGS AND YEARS 225 

Those were the true days, 
When love was truth ; 

Those were the dream songs, 
When life was joy ; 

Those were the hope days, 
Free from alloy. 

IV 

Softly to his lips this tune 
Came like apple bloom in June, 
Came and went, while slow in rest. 
His head bowed lower to his breast, 
The old man slept — 

And dreamed. 



226 THESONGOFTHE STOR 



THE SONG OF THE STORM 

The wind comes riding out of the west, 

That keen swift messenger of old ; 
He rattles the blinds as he gruffly goes, 
Marking the pane with fingers cold ; 
Riding along through the winter's night, 
Over the world in the chill moonlight, 
With never a thought of the where or 

way, 
With never a care if night or day. 
Only to ride at a boisterous rate. 
With a knock at the door and a pull at 
the gate. 

The wind comes riding over the moor, 
And rattles the sash in his hasty flight ; 

He combs the beard of the tasselled pine, 
And over the fences drifts the white 

Shifting snow in changing heaps ; 

While from within the firelight creeps 



THE SONG OF THE STORM 227 

In thin chill bars through shutters cold, 
Telling the story so oft retold ; 
Writing in letters of gold a chide 
To the wild bantering wind outside. 

While I a wanderer, alack ! 

Musing hear. 

In language queer, 

This song from the tamarack. 

Whew ! whew ! say I, 

As away I fly 
Over the housetops and down the street. 

Lifting the snow 

Only to throw 
It into the faces of those I meet. 

I paint soft roses 

On cheeks and noses 
As huffing and puffing I go my way. 

While the children shout 

At each merry bout 
As together we merrily laugh and play. 



228 SONG 



SONG 



Sweet daisy, when he plucked you there 

In yon meadow low, 
And placed you in my knotted hair, 

Did you, tell me, did you know 
What his thoughts were then of me ? 
What his thoughts will ever be ? 

II 
Sweet daisy, oh, thou fairest flower 

That e'er the meadows show, 
Does he love me on this hour ? 

Tell me, daisy, do you know ? 
When he pressed his lips to you, 
Did he say he loved me true ? 

Ill 
Did he whisper in your ear, 

Tell me, daisy fair, 
W^ords that I would like to hear, 

When he pressed you there ? 



SONG 229 

Did he whisper soft and low 
Words that I shall sometime know ? 

IV 

Dear flower, lie here on my breast, 

And, oh ! tell me, say. 
Will he sometime too there rest ? 

Daisy, tell me, pray, 
Will he sometime come again, 
And love me dear, as he did then ? 



Oh ! tell me when you 're old and sere, 

And my locks are gray, 
Will he love me, year by year. 

As he did that day ? 
Oh, daisy, why not answer me ? 
Oh, must I, too, wait and see ? 

VI 

Must the long days, one by one, 

Come and slowly go ? 
Must God's will be always done ? 

Tell me, daisy, if you know, 
Must a maid love, oh, flower fair, 
Yet never say nor who, nor where ? 



230 



TWO SONGS 



TWO SONGS 



HER SONG 



The wind one day blew out of a cloud ; 
Though it blew nor long nor hard nor loud 
It moved the grasses at our feet 
And softly kissed the violets sweet 
Down where the river flowed along — 
Sang to us in a voice of song 
And on the soft green tufted bank 
Into the grasses rose and sank. 
One lone daisy pink and fair 
You plucked and placed it in my hair, 
While the birds sang merrily, 
Merrily, merrily, merrily. 

HIS SONG 

Ah, more than that, my love, my lass, 
More than plucking from the grass 
A daisy of a dainty hue — 
I plucked my heart and gave it you. 



TWOSONGS 231 

Breathed a blessing on your head, 
Breathed a hope that never fled, 
Kissed your finger tips and then 
Blessed and kissed you o'er again 

While the birds sang cheerily. 
Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily. 



232 THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE 



THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE 

A MAIDEN walked in a garden, 

Humming a quaint old air, 
While the whippoorwill joined in the 
chorus, 

And around her everywhere 
The apple blooms from the branches 

Showered down over her head. 
And she wandered slowly, gladly, 

Wherever her fancy led. 
The sun through the western treetops 

Was slowly sinking from sight. 
And dimly, but brighter growing. 

Sailed higher the Queen of Night. 

Slowly she strolled to the seashore, 
The maid with the simple gown. 

And there as the tide flowed outward, 
She wandered up and down. 

And gazed at the sky above her. 
And gazed at the sea below, 



THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE 233 

And thought of its ceaseless motion, 
And thought of its ebb and flow. 

She took a rose from her bosom, 

With colors all faded and dim. 
And raising it, fondly kissed it. 

Murmuring sweetly of *' him ; " 
For a moment only it lingered. 

And then, with a cry of joy, 
She threw it into the water, 

To float as the ocean's toy. 

Thus she spake in her gladness. 

As she hurled it through the air ; 
" Oh, beautiful rose, go wander. 

Go wandering everywhere, — 
Float thou over the ocean. 

Under the sad-eyed moon. 
To the land of the fair Caucasian, 

To the land of the Octoroon ; 
To the land of the Hindoo princess, 

To the land of the Indian maid ; 
See those of the Turkish harem 

In costly gems arrayed 



234 THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE 

" Fair rose, wherever thou roamest, 

Float in on the flowing tide, 
And find thou a waiting maiden, 

And close in her bosom hide, 
And wait when her lover cometh, 

To hear the sweet words he may say. 
And Usten, sweet flow'r, oh, listen. 

And hear when he goeth away. 

" When thou hast wandered and wandered 

To the uttermost parts of the world, 
Travel thou back o'er the ocean. 

And again in my bosom be furled. 
Nestle there, rose, in thy fragrance. 

And prithee look up to my eye, 
And listen, oh, listen, dear flower. 

To say if thou hearest a sigh ; 
Then taste of my lips, sweetest blossom, 

And say if thou foundest so plain 
The print of a heart on another. 

As my lover on my lips hath lain." 

The sun through the western treetops 
Had finally sunken from sight. 

And brighter and brighter growing, 
Sailed higher the Queen of Night ; 



THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE 235 

And a voice called up from the shadow 
Made by a moon-kissed wave : 

" Oh, maiden, love cometh truly 
When love lieth hid in the grave." 



236 CHATTER, CHATTER 



''CHATTER, CHATTER, IT'S NO 
MATTER " 

Deep within the wooded border 
Of a vale I strayed, one day, 
Drawn on by the sweetest music 
Wafted through its shady way ; 
*' Chatter, Chatter, 
It 's no matter," 
Was the song it seemed to say. 

As I wandered, grew the music 

Yet more clear and sweet to me, 
Till I found a bubbling brooklet 
Gliding onward to the sea ; 
" Chatter, chatter, 
It 's no matter," 
Gliding onward, fresh and free. 

In a pool its waters tarried, 
Silent, by a mossy bank, 



CHATTER, CHATTER 237 

Where the weeping willows drooping, 
Singing rose and dripping sank ; 

'' Chatter, chatter, 

It 's no matter," 
Breeze-kissed branches rose and sank. 

Standing on its brim I pondered, 
Dreaming on its perfect glass. 
Till I seemed to see beside me. 
Gazing down, a joyous lass ; 
'* Chatter, chatter. 
It 's no matter," 
With the pool her looking-glass. 

Then the years seemed swiftly fleeting. 

Once again, but aged, stood. 
The woman now, a-looking backward. 
Thinking of her maidenhood ; 
"Chatter, chatter, 
It 's no matter," 
In her long past maidenhood. 

Far out from the wooded valley. 
Then I journeyed to the sea, 



238 CHATTER, CHATTER 

Where I heard the tides a-beating, 

Crooning now a song to me ; 

" Beating, beating, 

Time a-fleeting," 

From the brooklet to the sea. 



PITHY SAYINGS 

The longest life does not always con- 
tain the most suffering or happiness. 

There are some days so short they 
seem never to have been, still they live 
in some man's memory. 

Some days are so long they seem to 
extend even into to-day. These too are 
in memory. 

If the days are short and speed swiftly, 
so much more reason have we to sing 
throughout them. 

Over against the night is darkness — 
yes, so over against the morning is light. 

Eternity is not so long but that some 
men are willing to suffer throughout it if 
only they may satisfy their passions for 
an hour. 

Joy and sorrow are passions, and both 
are satisfied by a greater one, — love. 



240 PITHY SAYINGS 

There is more true religion in the per- 
fume of one simple rose than in all the 
hollow spoutings of a hypocrite. 

What I love you may dislike, therefore 
do not deem my religion wrong because 
it does not suit your taste. 

Bad is bad, good is good. Can the 
difference be all in opinion ? 

It is good to love, bad to hate, and 
worse to deceive in either. 

The heart is a little thing, but the love 
of it and the hate of it rule the world. 

Love and Sorrow are strong. How 
can it be, then, their offspring. Tears, can 
be weak, for they are her parents. 

What we are that we are : is it for the 
gossip's tongue to change us by speaking 
good or ill ? 

Let the dream we are dreaming be no 
nightmare, but one long happiness, honey 
for the lips, and perfume — roses and 
lilies — for the nostrils' breath. 

Birds sing in the early spring. 

Young birds sing, 

Love — only love. 



P I T H Y S A Y I N G S 241 

What then ? 

They build their tiny homes and rear 
their young. 

The winter's chilKng blast — 

Perhaps they separate. 

But with the warmth of spring again 
their happy notes pour forth. 

Let no chill winter wind 

Break in between our hearts ; 

Let spring bloom always 

With love — only love. 

A great many people in this world 
can't appreciate a point unless it be a 
thorn in their own flesh. 

History is the record of mistakes cor- 
rected. 

Joy and sorrow are of one mother love, 
but they are strangely different, and yet 
withal so alike. 

Religion is not the word of God ; it is 
the every-day life of individual man. It 
has not to do with creeds and hollow, 
high-sounding prayers and sermons, with 
churches and church sociables, but with 
man's every-day concerns and with the 
home life of all the people. 



242 PITHY SAYINGS 

Talk not to me of the barbarities and 
ignorance of the dim, forgotten past, but 
help me to live truthfully in the present. 

Wherein is the beauty of well doing 
but that others are made happy thereby ? 
Can heaven be more than this ? 

And as for the evils of man's acts, they 
follow him, and what is that but hell ? 

If the young housekeeper was to cast 
her bread upon the waters it would not 
return to her after many days — it would 
sink. 

And about charity — it is a long time 
appearing over the mountain crest, but 
with faith we may hope for it in the 
future. 

A flower in bloom is like the benedic- 
tion of a holy man, filled with the spirit 
of God. 

When a man quibbles over the right 
or wrong of an act, it is safe to reckon on 
a weak conscience. 

In the land of By-and-by there are 
many fancies of wondrous weaving, but 
a man may spend his whole life chasing 
them and where is the profit ? 



PITHY SAYINGS 243 

There is a bright light in the far 
heavens which but few men can see ; it is 
reason coming over the mountain peak. 

If we love our neighbor as ourself 
and he hunger, what do we, give him 
a stone ? And if it be the Sabbath-day 
and he thirst, do we say, " Go, wait until 
to-morrow " ? There are such. 

Too much freedom is the worst curse 
with which a man, a state, or a nation can 
be afflicted. 

If a man hungers give him bread, not 
a stone ; if his soul hungers, give him the 
truth, not a rock-bound, copper-bottomed, 
double-riveted creed. 

If your employer says. Do this, is it 
for you to do that, although the fruit of 
your labor may be of greater profit ? 

As for the land of discontent, it is in 
a deep valley and easy to reach, but the 
climate is misty and unhealthy and the 
fruit sour and poisoned at heart. 

The dead past is dead. Why then 

trouble it with murmurings of discontent ? 

^ As for the future, may it not prove a de- 



244 PITHY SAYINGS 

lusion and a snare? Why then trouble 
the Maybes with worrying ? 

Darkness surrounds us, and the dawn- 
ing light of science is the only true guide 
to future truth and perfection. 

Be wise to-day ; to-morrow may be too 
late. 

A man having said he was once in a 
place where every one minded his own 
business, was naturally doubted, but 
proved his statement by adding the place 
was a graveyard. 

Every doctrine is more or less dog- 
matic, and is at some time a fact to some 
people. But just so soon as it has been 
a fact, or is, just so sure it has been or 
will be disputed and proven wrong. 

God is the perfection of all that is 
just and good and the highest possible 
standard of love and charity. 

Opinion, reason, facts, these are know- 
ledge, and knowledge is one thing to- 
day ; to-morrow opinion is changed by a 
change in reasoning which makes con- 
trary facts. 



PITHY SAYINGS 245 

One generation is kept busy correcting 
the errors of the past, except when it is 
making errors to be corrected by the 
next. 

If they have the inclination, most men 
will if they can ; and this they call pre- 
destination. 

To some people this life is like a terri- 
ble nightmare ; this is generally because 
they have overloaded the stomach or 
their conscience. 

He who continuously strives to do right 
in all things comes in time to have the 
reputation of a right doer, and as such is 
honored by men. 

xA-s we are, let us act ; as we think, let 
us speak, but let our actions be moderate 
and our tongue not too glib. 

He who is fed by the raven is a thank- 
less fellow if he does not feed the ant in 
his turn. 

Unlike iron, the temper of one's 
tongue improves as it softens. 

If the rain never came how would we 
learn to appreciate the glory of the bright 
sun } 



246 PITHY SAYINGS 

A man is a man just so far as he treats 
his brother as a man. When he begins 
to treat him or to look upon him as less, 
he sees through the eyes of the animal he 
is looking at. 

When the will is weak, morals are gen- 
erally questionable. 

A man who fails in little things will 
surely fail in greater ones. 

If people could only learn that life is 
made up by a mingling of the ideal with 
the real, and that it is, when rightly lived, 
like a beautiful painting, varied, grand, 
and pathetic, with deep and softer col- 
orings commingled in a most harmonious 
whole ; if we could remember it is as 
much to live sympathetically, generously, 
with glad reason, as it is to do the 
rougher work, then would the great riddle 
be completely solved, and conditions, not 
aspirations, would more largely prevail 
for happiness. 

Few things are so trying to the aver- 
age person as forgetfulness in little 
things ; the great faults can be dealt with 



PITHY SAYINGS 247 

easier and with more forbearance than 
the trifling thing which merely vexes for 
the moment. 

One of the first lessons for a person 
to learn in life is that it is not what is 
done for him, but what he does for him- 
self, that benefits him. 

As the boy learns so will the man 
know. If he is taught to fight his own 
battles with patient thoughtfulness, the 
man will have no other thought, but will 
be self-reliant in all things. 

Don't let vexations of the past creep 
out in future murmurings of discontent ; 
the dead past is dead with its sorrow. 

A man who gives with his hand from 
a rankling heart but half gives ; he who 
gives his heart, though he have nothing 
else, gives all things. 

In the round of a man's daily life are 
many little vexations which must be 
trampled under the force of a constantly 
trained will, for it is only when he feels 
himself capable of meeting with calm- 
ness these trials that he can do his full 



248 PITHY SAYINGS 

share in adding to the brightness of 
home Ufe. 

Don't poison your neighbor's cat to 
spite the man ; that is spiting the Creator. 

It is the duty of every person to make 
this hfe beautiful ; and the only way to 
do this is to make each day and hour 
beautiful as it comes, that when it goes 
its way we may not wish to call it back 
to blot out some little action here or add 
a kind word there in place of careless 
negligence. 

Don't believe everything you hear 
about a neighbor because you dislike him ; 
if you do believe it don't repeat it. 

The home is the kindergarten of life, 
and the child is the highest trust of the 
parents. 

To every man the degree of good to 
which he has attained is in proportion to 
the selfishness he has overcome and the 
evil he is able to resist. 

The personal love of self, self-glorifi- 
cation and self-comfort, is in reality ego- 
tism, and causes more unhappiness than 
can well be imagined. 



PITHY SAYINGS 



249 



In the true home there is no individual 
or selfish world or motive, for there must 
be unity of purpose and desire to beget 
happiness. 

Selfishness is the essence of all sin 
and all sorrow, while a perfect patience 
and strong will is the opposite. 

The home is the key to the interpreta- 
tion of a man's life and character. 

There is more in manner than we 
generally imagine and less in the actual 
words said; and nowhere is temptation 
to find fault so easily yielded to, nowhere 
is so little thought given to the manner 
of speech, as in the home, the very place 
where from the fact of like desires there 
should be most help and encouragement. 

Unity of spirit, love of right, and bro- 
therhood of man. That is the motto 
which should be learned to-day and fol- 
lowed by every would-be Christian. 



